CHAPTER 11: The Christmas Revels

 

“There's no point in running off like this," Jack said again. He was watching Alphonse pack his few things into his small canvas satchel in the tiny room they shared in the lodgings in Bath provided for the gentlemen players. The company was departing Bath this morning to return to Kelsingham, but Alphonse had announced his intention to continue on to Bristol.

"Theatrical fortunes rise and fall like the tide," Jack added. "The Fairweathers will soon find their feet, again."

"In the meantime, the pound a week spent on my salary might be put to better use."

After last night's performance, Mr. Fairweather had confided to Jack his concern that their final two weeks of benefit performances in Kelsingham might not eke out the profit he hoped for. The winter was cold and the houses rarely full.

"But how will you live? Hellfire, Alphonse, it’s the middle of bloody December in the coldest winter anyone can remember."

Alphonse set his satchel on the ground. "I have saved sufficient of my wages. And Mr. Jepson has kindly sent me an offer of temporary employment, in service to our cause. I cannot refuse him."

Jack frowned. The last time Mr. Jepson had enlisted Alphonse's aid in the abolitionist cause, it was to supervise an attempted slave escape in the islands that had almost cost all their lives.

"Our cause is legal in England," Alphonse reminded him, reading his face. "There is no danger." He fished in the pocket of his coat, tossed over the bed, and handed an envelope to Jack. "There is his address in Bristol. Write to me there when the company moves on, so I will know where you and Victoria have gone."

On the afternoon of Christmas Day, as the weak winter sun cloaked in its cold haze was dropping toward the horizon, Miles Fairweather hosted a modest holiday dinner for his entire company in the coffee room of the Blue Fox Tavern, back in Kelsingham. He managed to provide a roast beef with potatoes and onions, roast capons with celery sauce, a dish of braised cabbage and a small plum pudding sent in from the pastry-cook’s. There were spiced apples and oranges and cheese for after, and chestnuts to pop in the fire and a quantity of beer and wine to wash it all down. 

A jug of egg-hot was passed round at the beginning of the meal, to take off the chill, and a bowl of bishop, hot spiced porter mulled with oranges, went round after. By the time the steaming pudding was brought in, even Charlotte Fairweather had some color in her cheeks. Then Mr. Fairweather rose to toast their Bath venture, announcing that three parties who had seen them at Lord Seely's had bespoken performances at the Kelsingham playhouse in the coming fortnight.

"In a bespeak, the patron requests a piece," Jack explained to Tory, "and gets his name printed up on the bill, and all of his wealthy friends come to see it."

"What a clever idea!" Tory smiled. Tonight, all ideas were clever, all the company congenial and all the provisions excellent, as long as she had Jack beside her. No one could begrudge a devoted brother and sister taking this festive meal together. Aunt Hat was keeping a judicious eye on the quantity of egg-hot consumed by Misses Bishop and Owen, but nobody was paying the slightest attention to what Tory imbibed. And since she had learned to drink in the Indies and had rather missed it, she was enjoying herself enormously.

Jack was in high spirits, too, which made her even happier. All that was missing were the shivering tambors and the lusty gombay drums of Christmas in the islands, when the slaves were let loose to sing and dance in the streets. Tory wished she were dancing right now. But ladies in England were probably not allowed to dance like women danced in the islands, joyous and abandoned, using all of their bodies. She and Jack might have danced together in the wake of the Negro parades, tonight. They might have kissed each other out on a public road, under a million gaudy stars, and no one would have cared.

She stole a sidelong glance at Jack and he smiled at her. Then he turned back to the story Mr. Fairweather was telling from the head of the two rows of little tables about his youth in the York company of "dear old Tate Wilkinson."

"My favorite recollection of Wilkinson," Mr. Plumleigh spoke up, "has to do with his taste for madiera and a certain young actress . . . but perhaps I ought to postpone this particular story for a later moment!"

"Indeed, Mr. Plumleigh, it is rather late already," announced Charlotte Fairweather, as the men chuckled. "I propose we ladies retire and leave you gentlemen to your revels."

And Tory's happy Christmas fantasy crashed to earth as the ladies were ushered out.

 

Plumleigh was out-boasting Harding, Stephen Fairweather was seeking romantic advice from Mr. Ingram, old Mr. Warendale was slumbering in a corner, and Bell had already slipped away, when Jack stood and wished the others good night. Richard Gabriel waited a decent interval, laughed hollowly at another of Plumleigh’s voluptuous jests and then excused himself to follow Jack upstairs.

Richard could bear it no longer. He had to know. Jack had spent the entire evening at his sister’s side and no amount of toasting in the landlord’s best spirits could persuade him to abandon her for any of the other ladies. And the tales Jack told of his boyhood travels, a dozen times round the country by the time he’d come of age. A lifetime of experience. And yet, never married.

It was sinful to imagine such things, of course, on this of all days, the feast of the Saviour’s birth. An abomination, the Scriptures were very clear on that point. Richard knew he was foolish to suppose he could cancel his evil, his sinfulness, with churchgoing and prayers and contrition. But how else was he to know what God expected of him? If God’s purpose was in all things, what was his purpose with Richard? He must have had some reason to make him the way he was, if only Richard could discover it. And why had He sent him Jack? As a trial? A punishment? To tempt him? To save him? Richard had to know.

Jack had not yet gone to bed when Richard let himself into their room. He had not even undressed. He had kicked off his boots and unwound his stock and his unbuttoned collar gaped open at his throat. He sat on his bed like a boy, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped loosely round them, gazing out the small window. The lamp burned low on the table beside him, softening the planes and hollows of his face, deepening his dark eyes. He looked up when Richard entered and gave him half a smile.

"Early night, Richard?"

"I do not believe I can listen to one more account of George Plumleigh’s rampaging appetites."

"Oh, aye, it’s all been wine, women and song with Plumleigh," Jack laughed. "Every boy’s dream."

"Was it yours?" Richard asked, too quickly, as he hung up his coat in their little wardrobe. "When you began in the theatre?"

"My dream . . . " Jack mused, thinking back. Drink had made his memories mellow, tonight. "I believe I wanted to play every part Shakespeare ever wrote. And triumph in 'em, of course." And become the next Kean, although he didn’t say it, not even in jest. And to make his foster parents proud.

Richard saw the shadow pass across his face. "And now?" he asked, sitting on the edge of his own bed.

"Doth not the appetite alter?" Jack smiled back. "Now, I’m perfectly content just to earn my living."

"But you mustn't forfeit your dreams, Jack," Richard said earnestly. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick."

"Oh, I still dream, Richard, I promise you."

There was something wry in Jack’s expression that Richard could not decipher, some private jest. A secret? A sign? Emboldened, Richard gazed for a long moment into those dark, magnetic eyes, trying to read their message. Jack did not look away and Richard felt a thrill that had nothing to do with salvation or with pleasing God.

"I’ve no objection to appetite, you know. In moderation." Richard glanced down to smooth an errant crease out of his dove grey trousers. "I'm not a prude, despite what some of  'em may have told you."

Jack continued to watch him carefully. He was pretty certain he didn’t want to hear whatever Richard was going to say next. He had seen Richard looking at him, measuring him, gauging his own chances; Jack had been at sea long enough to know that look. It was easy enough to deflect at sea, when there was often some more willing fellow a berth or two away. But here in the civilized world, things were more complicated.

"I never pay much attention to gossip," Jack offered.

"But people do talk," Richard went on. "Particularly theatre people. And I can imagine what they say about me. But the fact is, I believe that all . . .  appetites, all animal spirits, come from God."

"I suppose that’s so."

"And the Lord in His wisdom does not give us all the same appetite, any more than he gives us all blond hair or blue eyes. It would have been a very great pity," Richard added, very softly, "had He given you blue eyes."

Jack supposed there was no point in pretending not to understand Richard’s meaning. Best to try to resolve this thing. He didn’t want to make an enemy of Richard. Or hurt him.

"That’s a very kind thing to say. But I’m afraid your God has not given me the same appetite as yours."

"He’s your God, as well," said Richard. "And . . . are you so sure? A fine figger of a man like yourself and no wife? I’ve yet to see you dallying with the ladies."

Jack couldn’t think of any way to explain that the woman he loved was the woman everyone supposed to be his sister. That was just the sort of thing Richard’s God was sure to frown on, no matter how liberal He was in the matter of animal spirits. "We’re not all of us like Harding, leaping on every female that breathes."

"But have you never tried the other?" Richard coaxed, leaning slightly forward, but not reaching out to touch him. "You’re a man of much finer sensibilities than Harding. You might find it to your taste. Many do."

Jack was beginning to feel like a virgin in a melodrama. But he mustn’t lose patience and he mustn’t laugh; he knew what a grave risk Richard was taking. He must be damned lonely. And Jack could sympathize with that.

"Let me try to explain," Jack began again. "Suppose I was endowed with all the qualities you admire . . . "

"But you are, Jack! Such fine, dark eyes, such strong limbs..."

" . . . whatever they may be," Jack hurried on. "Suppose I was the very paragon of all your heart’s desires. Except that I was female."

Richard’s face fell. "Then you would not possess all the qualities I admire."

"The point is, you might still be fond of me, but you could only express that fondness in limited ways. According to nature."

"People are always bringing nature into it," Richard muttered, slouching back a little, no longer eager. "I promise you, my feelings are perfectly natural to me."

"Of course they are," Jack agreed. "As mine are to me.”

Richard could not bear to look at Jack’s frank, reasonable expression while all his own hopes were dashed. And yet, he knew he ought to be grateful. There had been no bitter words. Jack had not run out to shout for the watch, nor had he struck him a blow, all of which had happened to Richard before, with other men. Devil the man for his unaffected candor. What a bedmate he might have been.

"Well, it’s a very great pity," Richard said, at last. "Is there truly no hope?"

"None," Jack apologized.

"If I were younger?" Richard suggested. "Slimmer . . ?"

"There’s nothing the matter with you," Jack assured him. "It's only . . . " Only what? he wondered. That he was trapped in an idiotic lie? That he had been unable to bed or even acknowledge the woman he loved more than life for nearly two months, although he saw her every day, spoke to her every day, wanted her every minute of every day? He thought of Tory as she had looked tonight, in her old, plain dark green frock, random little coils of her rusty-dark hair escaping their pins, her bright, dark, laughing eyes. He could scarcely bear to look at her, afraid he would never be able to give her up at the end of the evening, struggling to feign an interest in the others’ stories. He had been sitting in the dark aching for her when Richard came in. He ached for her, now. He wished he had her here in this lumpy hired bed right this minute. They would show Nature a trick or two.

"It’s only that you love another," Richard observed.

"Yes," Jack confessed.

"And he spurns you?" Richard went on, perking up. "She, I mean?"

Jack shook his head. "It’s . . . complicated."

"But you can tell me."

"It's private," Jack snapped.

Richard straightened up where he sat, raising his chin, his old haughtiness coming instantly back into his expression.

"I thought we were having a private conversation."

"I'm sorry, Richard. It’s very difficult for me to speak of it. Please don’t ask me. As a favor to a friend?"

Richard gazed down his hawk’s nose at him, considering. What sort of secret could Jack harbor that was worse than Richard’s own? "Friends ought to trust each other."

Jack said nothing more, only met his gaze. Odd that Richard had never noticed how stubborn those dark eyes could be, how opaque. "Well, keep your secrets, then, I’ll not harry them out of you," Richard muttered.

"Thank you," Jack nodded. He got up to finish undressing for bed and Richard tried not to watch him.

"I suppose you can’t know what it’s like," Richard spoke again, as he busied himself pulling off his boots. "Having to hide your feelings, your nature, day and night. To deny who you are."

Richard saw Jack pause at his buttons, noted his fugitive sigh.

"I can imagine," said Jack, with surprising feeling.

 

Top: Abolition pamphlet, 1824
 

CHAPTER 10: Captain Lightfoot

Three days before Christmas, the Fairweather Theatrical Company departed Kelsingham for a private engagement in Bath. The Fairweather family rode in the company caravan with all the necessary dresses and properties, which Stephen Fairweather had driven to Kelsingham in advance of his parents' arrival to set up the playhouse. The rest of the company found places in the stage coaches that carried passengers to and from Bristol and Bath. It would not do for members of the company invited to perform for Lord Seely’s private guests to arrive at their destination on foot, like common tramps.

"His Lordship fancies himself quite a patron of the arts," Jane Kennett explained to the ladies in their coach, "so he built his own theatre for private entertainments and transferred his professional patronage to Mr. and Mrs. F."

"I heard Lord Seely was sweet on Mrs. F. once upon a time, back when she trod the boards as Miss Greville," said Miss Bishop.

"No doubt you heard it from Mr. F," Jenny replied. "His Lordship is a man of whimsical temperament, as so many of 'em are, and Mr. F. likes to think our troupe has a deeper claim on the old boy’s affections. But the fact is, he’ll take after anything in breeches. So you’d best keep your wits about you, Mrs. Lightfoot."

"I shall do my best to outrun him," said Tory.

"Only just to the interlude, dear. He’ll forget all about you once he gets a look at Bishop in her pink tights."

"Mrs. Kennett!" Miss Bishop went as rosy as her tights.

"Never worry, Flora," said Mrs. Swan from her corner. "An old gent like Lord Seely won’t have much ammunition left in his piece."

This remark completely silenced the younger ladies while Tory swallowed a grin. Mrs. Swan, who was nearer forty than thirty, exchanged a mischievous look with Jenny. The principal singer did not care to waste her voice in idle chat, so she always chose her few words for maximum effect.

"And just as well," said Jenny. "We shouldn’t want Mrs. Lightfoot to compromise the memory of her late husband."

Tory immediately dropped her eyes.

"Not when she pines for him still, poor thing," Violet chimed in.

Tory’s every muscle froze as she stared at the coach floor.     

"Do you?" cried Miss Bishop, eagerly. "What was he like?"

"Now girls, don’t distress her," advised Jenny. "You can see how she grieves."

Tory cast her a grateful glance, only to find those mismatched eyes resting on her with cool expectation. Those eyes would bore straight into her soul, exposing her for the fraud she was. Hellfire, she must say something, improvise something they would believe.

"Was he very handsome?" whispered Miss Bishop.

"Very." Tory’s voice was low and halting, but her mind was racing ahead. "He was . . . fair, golden hair touched with red, like the sun, and sky-blue eyes. And . . . young. We were both so young."

"What a tragedy!" enthused Miss Bishop.

"His father owned a shipping business out of New York, in America, and he was master of one of the ships."

"A sea captain!" cried Violet. "Captain Lightfoot!"

"However did you meet?" from Miss Bishop.
    
"In . . . Portsmouth. His ship was trading there. He . . . had the fever, yellow fever. I was at the same inn . . . my brother was playing in Portsmouth . . . " had she not seen a playhouse, there? ". . .  and I was already seas — I mean, I’d had the fever before. As a child. I nursed him and when he recovered . . . we fell in love. And he took me back to New York with him."

As nervous as she was, Tory could not help a surge of gleeful satisfaction when she glanced up to see the rapt faces all around her, even Jenny’s. It was such a thrilling story and they were all so eager. What did it matter if it wasn’t true?

"Did you go back a bride?"

"Oh, yes. He swore he could not wait until New York."

"Oh, how romantic! And you had a honeymoon at sea?"    

"Yes," Tory smiled, enjoying herself, now. "We went by way of the West Indies. Have you ever seen a sunset in the Indies? No? It happens in a moment — the sky glows red, the sun goes out like a candle and a million stars swallow up the rest of the light. It’s so beautiful. The trades . . . tradewinds . . . blow gently all night and the spray off the bows is as warm as a kiss." She did not mention the mosquitoes, the debilitating night fogs, the rats that infested a ship’s hold, or the hurricanes. This was not the moment.

"What happened to him, your husband?"

"Hush, Flora!"

"But you don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Lightfoot? You mustn’t shut up your grief."

"He was . . . lost at sea," Tory temporized. "Some time later. His ship was . . . attacked by pirates . . . in the Indies. They said he fought like a lion, but . . . but they never found him."

She lowered her eyes, again. Hadn’t she given them enough?

"How tragic!" breathed Miss Bishop.

"You poor creature," seconded Violet. "We’re so sorry."

Tory was feeling more than a little sorry, herself; it sounded like one of those silly melodramas the company performed. But it was so much safer than the truth.

"How brave you are to keep working. Despite your sorrow."

Jenny Kennett’s voice had lost none of its coolness. Tory kept her eyes downcast and assumed a look of sorrow. She had only to think of how long it had been since she had held Jack, kissed him, fallen asleep in his arms, and genuine desolation flooded through her.

"One cannot live on sorrow, Mrs. Kennett."

 

"Ah, Mr. Dance," Miles Fairweather called. "Might we have the benefit of your expert opinion for a moment?"

Jack came out onstage to find Fairweather and Ingram, the stage manager, frowning down into the pit while Christopher Bell leaned on his prop sword nearby. After a luncheon laid for all the company in Lord Seely’s kitchen, they were about to begin rehearsals in his private theatre, a small space, if lushly decorated with maroon velvet and gilt.

"It seems we must restage the duel of Aguecheek and Cesario in half the space, as His Lordship has shortened the apron of his stage since last year. "

"It’s all one to me if I must tumble into the pit, so long as there is some suitably rich and titled lap for me to land in," added Bell, who was playing Aguecheek. "But I fear for Mrs. Lightfoot’s modesty."

Jack considered the narrow apron. It was a sham duel; some comic business might be gotten out of them circling back to back with their swords clutched to their bosoms. "Let me find Alphonse and we’ll work something up."

Bell picked up the new business with his characteristic aplomb, Jack standing in for Tory while Alphonse coached from the side. Half an hour later, the young actor's only other sign of exertion was a slight flush, high on his cheeks, which intensified the deep marine blue of his eyes. It ought to be illegal to look like that, thought Jack, feeling suddenly very old and tired and plain.

"That's done it, Mr. Bell," Jack announced, at last, sinking onto a stool beside Alphonse’s. "Thank you for your patience."

"My pleasure, Mr. Dance," responded Bell, smoothing back an errant strand of pale hair from his face. He nodded to Alphonse and was about to turn away when he paused and faced them both again.

"Oh, and look here, Dance, I was damned sorry to hear about your brother-in-law. Shameful waste."

Jack stared at him. "My . . . brother-in-law."

"Captain Lightfoot. Taken off in his prime like that, and still so young. Your sister must feel it keenly. I know I should."

Jack did not know what kind of nonsense he mumbled as Bell strolled off. He turned to meet Alphonse’s composed gaze.

"Captain Lightfoot?"

"Surely, you recall your sister’s dear departed husband," said Alphonse. "Fair, handsome fellow. Sailed out of New York. Heir to a great shipping fortune. Lost at sea, so they say. Captain Matthew Lightfoot."

Jack looked as if he’d taken a blow. Alphonse glanced at the activity all around them and motioned Jack into a gloomy corner of the backstage, far away from the others.

"Is there such a person?" Alphonse prompted, sotto voce.

"Oh, aye, he’s real enough," Jack answered, in the same low tone. "Matty Forrester. We sailed together. How do you and Bell know of him?"

"I had it from Stephen Fairweather, who heard it from Miss Bishop, that pretty girl he moons after. I imagine Bell had it from Mrs. Kennett."

"What else do they say?"

Alphonse repeated the rest of the tale as he had heard it. "And Victoria," he concluded, "she knew this Forrester, I suppose?"    

"She was in love with him."

Jack could not imagine what he must look like, the way Alphonse was scrutinizing him. There was so much Alphonse had prudently never asked them about their life before they knew him.

"But . . . she never married him?" said Alphonse.

Jack shook his head.

”She never nursed him through the fever?"

"No. That was me."

"Well . . . it is only a story," Alphonse reasoned. "It means nothing."

Jack wished he could believe it meant nothing, this unwelcome resurrection of Matty Forrester into their lives. Jack knew that Tory loved him, after all they had survived together. But the freedom they had shared in the islands was very far away, now. It was cold in England, and gloomy and full of rules. Tory must be very lonely, here. Why else would she conjure up Matty out of the thin air?

"And was this Forrester as handsome as they say?"

"He was a bloody god," Jack replied, oddly relieved to speak about the ghost that had haunted him for so long. "Tall, fair, broad-shouldered. Had all his teeth. And a goddamned dervish in battle. Hadn’t a lick of common sense, that boy, but he loved a good fight."

"So that is why the pirates captured him."

 Jack shook his head again. "Matty was never a captive. He swam aboard after we plundered the ship he was on. He couldn't wait to go a-pirating in the Indies."

"What a glamorous life it must have been," said Alphonse drily. 

Jack’s voice sank lower, still. "There was nothing glamorous about the pirate trade. Our crew were mostly poor cubanos — Cubans — and creoles and runaway slaves. Our Captain Hart was a Scotsman who fought in Bolivar’s revolution against Spain. Took to piracy when he thought it might be a better way for poor criollos to make a living off the wealth of their own islands. Not that it was ever much of a living. Once in a great while, we’d plunder a fat trading ship and piss away the profits, in between long stretches of boredom, fever, mosquitoes and the odd hurricane, down on the hind end of the Cuban coast."

"Could you not . . . escape?"

"To what? I joined up on my account and I was never sorry about it," said Jack. "Piracy was an improvement over the merchant fleet I'd been pressed into. And it was a goddamned holiday after the slave ship that had been my last berth."

Alphonse nodded; he had heard that part of Jack's story before. "Why give it up, then?"

"Tory blundered aboard and . . . everything changed." A wistful smile tugged at a corner of Jack's mouth. "She was an orphan, a stowaway on a brig we boarded out of Boston whose crew were too witless to know her for the female she was. They scented the Native blood in her, though, her mother's blood, and used her accordingly. She was glad enough to join us when Ed Hart made her the offer." Jack shook his head. "She was so hungry for the freedom she'd never had in Boston, so hungry for the life that had been so unkind to her. I couldn't make it out. When I came down with the fever, I expected to die in peace."

"But?"

Jack shrugged. "She wouldn't let me. We lost our berth, however, the captain had to put me off to avoid contagion, and she stayed with me. After that, we had to make our own way. That's when we met up with you."

Alphonse nodded again. "And what became of this Forrester?"

"Who knows?" Jack shrugged. "An old shipmate told us that Ed Hart decided to rejoin the rebel fleet, and put Matty off in some English port town in the islands on the way. But that's the last we ever heard of him."

Alphonse regarded him for another long moment.  "And you miss it, still," he said at last. "That life."

Jack considered this. "Tory does, although she would never say so. Not to me." He sighed again. "It's a dangerous, thankless trade, but Ed Hart was an honest fellow, according to his own lights. We were no one’s slaves."

"Ah," said Alphonse.


 

On the eve of Christmas Eve, Tory gave her Viola in Twelfth Night in the small private theatre at Seelydown Manor, the country estate of Lord and Lady Seely in the green hills above Bath. Charlotte Fairweather presented her to the Seelys afterward. The manager’s wife had not been seen much in the playhouse of late, nearly due and having a difficult time of it. She wore rose-colored silk, tonight, to reflect some color into her pale face, but Tory could see what the effort cost her. 

"How proud I will be, dear Mrs. Lightfoot, to one day boast that you and your brother made an early appearance together upon my own humble stage," Lord Seely beamed. "We are always on the watch for the next Kembles, are we not?" 

A well-kept gentleman of about sixty, he enjoyed flattering all the ladies and misquoting Shakespeare to all the men, who were too conscious of their place to correct him. Plain, formidable Lady Seely did not share her husband’s enthusiasm for the drama, but she became more animated when her army of servants cleared the pit benches away and laid out a cold buffet supper, bestowing upon her aristocratic guests the delicious thrill of mingling with members of the notorious theatrical profession.

Tory was shooed off to enjoy herself, but she couldn’t find Jack, and Alphonse was with Kit Bell, charming a flotilla of bejewelled matrons.

"Why, here you are, Mrs. Lightfoot."

And she turned to face the shark’s grin of Henry Harding.

"My congratulations on your triumph, this evening."

"Thank you, Mr. Harding."

"Surely some sort of celebration is in order after your exertions," he suggested.

"I'm afraid my exertions have exhausted me."

"One should never think it to look at you," he beamed. Then he attempted to alter his features into something sympathetic, although scarcely any less predatory. "May I also offer my condolences on your untimely loss? What a shame to be left a widow while still so young. And vigorous. You ought not to be all alone in the world." His wandering hand had found the small of her back. "Not when there is a remedy so near to hand."

"A trifle too near for my taste sir," she replied sweetly, stepping again out of his reach.

Alphonse materialized at her elbow and Harding melted away.

"That fellow is not annoying you, is he?" Alphonse asked her.

“He might, if I paid him any mind.”

“Then do not. I have found something else to interest you, Victoria. Come with me.”

Alphonse maneuvered her out of the small pit and up a corner staircase to the upper tier. He steered her past a knot of gentlemen debating politics and a quartet of ladies playing at whist in an open box and down the narrow corridor behind the boxes to the last one, nearest the stage.

"Keep to the back and the draperies will conceal you from those below," he told her. "And do not be long. You’ll be missed."

Alphonse opened the door and nodded Tory inside. She stepped into the shadows at the rear of the box as the door closed behind her, and a figure leaped out of a chair before her, making her gasp.

"Rusty?"

"Hellfire, Jack, you scared the life out of me! What are you doing up here, all alone in the dark?"

He said nothing for a moment, only stood there, looking at her. Behind him, past the draperies and over the railing, she could see part of the chandelier that hung above the pit casting soft, flickering light, making the shadows jump in the box. The tinkling of glassware and low, muted chatter wafted up from the merrymakers below like a distant dream as Tory rushed to Jack and threw her arms around him.

"What is it, hombre? What’s wrong?"         
 

His arms tightened round her for a silent moment. Then he sighed into her hair. ”I heard such an odd story, today. Seems our Matty has been promoted. Captain, now, is it? To say nothing of his promotion to husband."

Tory muttered a silent oath and straightened in his embrace. "It was your idea to make me a widow," she reminded him. "You told me . . . "

"I said you should keep silent."

"I was in a coach, Jack. I couldn't just walk away, I had to tell them something! How would it look if I couldn’t describe my own husband?"

"Did it have to be Matty?"

"What should I have said, that the man I love is tall and dark and looks a great deal like my brother?"

Jack lowered his eyes and shook his head. "But . . . was it wise to mention pirates?"

"I'm guilty of melodrama, I confess." Tory kept her voice low and urgent. "But these people know no more of pirates than they do of Turks, it was a way to end the story, that's all. I certainly didn't relish casting the pirates as villains, although you should have seen how eagerly the ladies ate it up. But it was only  . . . a device."

"And a damned effective one," Jack admitted. "Your little tale is all over the dressing rooms."

"Is it?"
    
Oh, aye. I must have heard the description of a sunset in the Indies half a dozen times."

Tory hoped it was too dark for Jack to see her smile. "I'm sorry," she lied.

"No you’re not. And why should you be, you’re a born storyteller. You ought to be, all the practice we’ve had." He sighed again, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It’s only . . . well, it’s bad enough we have to live this lie, without making it any bigger."

Tory crept a little closer. "I never meant to hurt you, hombre. I couldn't think fast enough. You know it was all lies. I have never wanted to marry Matty, not ever. Not when I have you."

He folded his arms more closely around her. "I know, mi vida. I'm only acting like a fool because I miss you so much."

"I miss you, too." Tory found her voice suddenly near to breaking. "It's so hard to pretend I don’t love you. I never thought it would be so hard." Her hand slid slowly down his chest, picking idly at his stock. "I thought it would be like acting, but it’s not. It's one thing to play somebody else for an hour onstage. But it’s quite another to have to pretend not to be who I am, not to feel what I feel, every hour of the day."

"It’s a damned mess, all right," Jack agreed, stroking her hair.  "Loving you is all that keeps me human, Rusty. And every time I must deny what I feel for you, I feel . . . diminished."

"This is all my fault . . . " Tory began miserably, but Jack shushed her and hugged her more closely to him.

"Aye, it’s your fault we’re clothed and fed and off the streets," he said. "We’ve only got to hold on to our sanity until . . . "

"Until when?"

There was a riot of feeling in Jack’s dark eyes as he gazed down at her. He took her face in both his hands and kissed her once, very gently, and she felt her body melting out from underneath her.

"Did I tell you how splendid you were tonight?" he murmured. "It’s as if the role was written just for you."

"Oh, Jack . . . "

The door handle rattled softly behind them and Jack shoved himself an arm’s length away, although Tory could scarcely stand by herself. The door opened onto the expectant face of Henry Harding, whose greedy eyes brightened when they fell on Tory. He took one step into the box before he saw Jack in the shadows beyond her.

"Why, er, Dance . . . ah, there you are! Here, I thought . . . " Harding kept looking from Tory to Jack, confused and intrigued. "I say, I’m not . . .  interrupting anything, am I?"

"Some fool keeps reminding Mrs. Lightfoot of her recent tragedy," Jack snapped. Tory prayed their incriminating flushes might be taken for anger as he took her elbow. "Can no one leave my sister in peace?"

And they pushed past Harding, out of the box and into the narrow passage, intent on the stairwell, not daring to look back.

 

 

Top: J.A. Atkinson: Costumes of Great Britain No 3 1807:  Post-Captain

Above: Twelfth Night, Henry William Bunbury, ca. 1790 

Above: Contemporary romance novel cover by Jon Paul Studios

Above: Marc Chagall, “Les Amoureux en Bleu” (1930)
 

CHAPTER 9: Frauds and Gypsies

Tory knew the cost of discovery, but she could bear it no longer. She missed Jack so much at night, and since she could not have him, she was driven to foolish risks to have the next best thing—his memory, his essence, in the words she had written about their life together. Her only comfort in these long, cold, English nights. Her logbook.

She had been so careful about keeping it hidden, prying open a split seam in the ticking and thrusting it into the straw stuffing of her thin mattress. She scarcely ever dared take it out, the way Jenny Kennett was always watching her with her odd eyes, one green, one brown, always probing, perhaps laughing at her. In some ways she had been so helpful; she'd shown Tory the most fashionable way to pin up her hair, gifted Tory with one of her spare everyday dresses, even taken out her own needle and thread to adjust it to Tory's height and shape. Tory might have even enjoyed the woman’s caustic wit, had she not felt it was so often directed at her. As if she knew Tory had no right to be here, knew, somehow, that Tory was a fraud.

But Mrs. Kennett often slipped out in the evenings, exciting Tory’s curiosity and envy. Tory had peeped out the window over her truckle-bed one night to see Mrs. Kennett gliding off into the shadows on the arm of Mr. Bell. Yet, as close as the two of them were, Tory could not credit them going off on any kind of romantic tryst, for surely Mr. Bell was not interested in women for that purpose; she had known many such men in the seafaring trade. The two of them had gone out together tonight, leaving Tory alone with Violet, an agreeable girl, if a bit young and silly. Tory was not much over twenty, herself, but she felt centuries older than Violet in experience.

As the girl's soft, high breathing rose and fell in the dark, Tory quietly lit a candle in a stick placed on the window sill above her bed and withdrew her treasure. It was covered in fine Spanish mahogany-colored leather darkened with much wear, its cream-colored pages three quarters full of her scribblings. She had begun it as a ship’s log, a recitation of dates and locations, little more than a record of business transactions. And yet, whenever she lifted the cover, she could smell the salt air, hear the creaking of the lines and the high pealing of distant gulls. 

It had become more than merely a journal of her days and nights in the islands; as Tory huddled beneath her bedclothes, propped up on one elbow in this draughty hired room above the pastry-cook's, it was her only link to the life she had lost and the girl she had been, the brazen young runaway who had fought so hard to earn Jack’s love.

Violet sighed in her sleep and Tory turned the pages more slowly, caressing each one as if it were some part of Jack, his scarred back or his strong, callused hands. She held his life in her hands in fact, in this book. It was dangerous to keep and yet she could not bear to part with it. Especially now, on these lonely nights, when it was all she had of Jack. Love Denied, that was the name of their pantomime farce, but there was nothing funny about it in real life.

She could scarcely make out the words by the flickering candle flame, so engrossed in the operation that she never heard footfalls on the stair. Only a tread on the creaky threshold warned her to slam the book shut and thrust it deep under the bedclothes before the door swung open and Jenny crept in. Tory hadn’t time to pinch out the candle, and Jenny’s attention was drawn to the light. Tory dared not imagine what wraithlike visage she must present, taken by surprise. She quickly raised a forefinger to her lips and nodded at Violet, asleep in the shadows.

"Oh, Owen never wakes up once she’s drifted off," Jenny whispered, as she pushed the door shut behind her. "I wonder what sorcery you’re up to, here in the dark."

"I was reading," Tory said. "I didn’t want to disturb her."

"Romances by candlelight, eh?" Jenny grinned, crossing to the wardrobe to hang up her cloak. "Anything lurid I might enjoy?"

She actually took a step toward Tory’s bed, and Tory's knee tensed over the logbook.

"My . . . part. For tomorrow’s farce," she improvised.

"Oh dear, how boring," Jenny sighed, turning back to the wardrobe again. But Tory saw her keen eyes sweep across the bed, searching in vain for the playscript pages Tory had copied out this afternoon.

"You’re back early," Tory said, to prevent any further interrogation. "I hope Mr. Bell is well?"

"Kit is disgustingly radiant, since Fairweather took him aside at the Blue Fox to discuss putting him into bigger parts. Forgot all about me. I had to ask that charming brother of yours to escort me back."

"Jack?" Tory half sat up. "He’s here?"

Jenny peered at her through the shadows. "Well, I couldn’t very well ask him upstairs. That would be terribly indiscreet. Not that I wouldn’t like to," she added slyly. "You know him better than anyone, my dear. How is it that so dashing a fellow has remained unattached all this time? Or is there a mad wife chained in an attic, somewhere?"

Tory glanced briefly away; wife or not, she would be mad soon enough, at this rate. "He says ours is a gypsy profession," she murmured, "far too hazardous and uncertain a life to inflict upon a wife."

"Unless she’s a gypsy, herself," mused Jenny Kennett.


Jack was still half a block away from the Blue Fox, berating himself for not finding some pretext on which to go upstairs with Mrs. Kennett and visit Tory, when he saw Christopher Bell emerge from the tavern door after his interview with Miles Fairweather. The young actor nodded to Jack, touching the tip of his walking stick to the brim of his hat before turning the corner up ahead for his own lodgings in the next street. As he crossed the corner, Jack was alerted by a low buzz of agitation in the night air. By the street lamp lit on the far corner, he saw Bell’s silhouette sauntering down the street as three young fellows came round the next corner toward him. As they made to pass by, one of the strangers lunged a little sideways to slam his shoulder into Bell’s.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," minced the stranger, "Miss." He seemed to grin and glower in the same expression as his chuckling fellows drew up on either side of him.

"And so you should," Bell replied easily. "Well, run away, laddies, there’s no harm done."

"But I say there is harm done, Miss Margaret," jeered the other youth. "When your kind brings your filth into a decent town."

"My kind?" echoed Bell, turning round to lean upon his walking stick. "Do you mean to say you gentlemen do not fancy the drama?"

"You know what I mean," blustered the youth, his smile gone. "Molly-boy! Indorser! You . . .  you  . . . "

"He means our kind, dear." Jack had come down the shadowy side of the street to take up a position next to Bell. "Poor boy, he blushes to even say the words."

"Oh, our kind," Bell purred, darting a mischievous glance at Jack. "Well, perhaps if you’d stand us a drink like civilized fellows, you’d get what you’re after."

"I don’t want to drink with you!" gaped the outraged stranger, then he threw himself at Bell with such careless brute rage, he never even saw Jack’s knee in the darkness, never knew how he was pitched bodily across Jack’s back and slammed into the gutter. A second fellow was charging in with upraised fists, but Bell blocked a wild punch with his left arm and kneed him sharply in the belly. Jack somersaulted behind the fellow to trip him off his feet, then whirled about to see a third figure almost on top of him. But Bell’s walking stick feinted across his chest and in the next instant, Bell’s right fist exploded out of the darkness. The youth staggered backwards into one of his companions who was attempting to rise and both collapsed into the gutter next to the third.

Jack was up on his feet again, advancing toward the assailants, blood pumping, before he realized that, aside from some last, slurred invective, their fire for combat had evidently been doused by a surfeit of wine before the campaign.

"Once again, Romeo is saved by the gallant Tybalt," Bell saluted Jack; he'd caught up his hat and taken a few long, prudent strides farther down the street. "Which leads one to suspect there was more going on in Verona than Shakespeare wished to tell us."

"You appear to have little enough need for my help," Jack panted, following Bell. Behind them, the three young bravos had begun swearing and arguing with each other in lieu of any better target as they stumbled back into the shadows.   

"One does not engage in my sort of life if one cannot defend it," Bell agreed, dusting off his jacket. "How do you think I have managed to preserve this face for so long?"   

Jack noted the way the lad referred to his face as if it were a property, something separate from himself. He would need naught else to make his fortune on the stage, that was certain. Jack had further cause to admire him for refusing to pretend to be other than what he was, despite the cost. It made Jack feel twice the fraud. "That was one hell of a punch, all right," he agreed.

"I have known my share of bruisers," said Bell. "Pugilists proliferate like fleas in the sorts of neighborhoods where playhouses flourish. Not in the bruiser line yourself, are you?"

Jack shook his head, as if to deflect Bell's suddenly acute curiosity. He didn't fight, he danced, that's what his shipboard compañeros used to say; that was how he'd gotten his name. "I'm just a lowly tumbler."

"And yet, no stranger to a battle," mused Bell, expertly tapping his hat to the perfect rakish angle. "How fortunate for me that you happened to be lurking in the shadows."

"I was scarcely lurking, Mr. Bell," Jack replied. "Mrs. Kennett asked me to see her to her lodgings and I was on my way back to mine." He nodded toward the Blue Fox, from which Bell had so recently emerged. "I should have left you to your fun, but, not knowing any better, I thought three to one rather unfair odds."

"As indeed they might have been," Bell agreed. "Fortunately for me, no one expects a fellow of my kind to know how to fight, which is a great advantage." Bell gazed at him appraisingly for one more beat. "Not in the molly line either, I'll wager?"

Jack grinned and shook his head. "But, as you say, it gave us the advantage."

Bell smiled back. "Well, I am in your debt, Mr. Dance," he said, touching his stick again to his hat. "Not many would have bothered."
   
 

CHAPTER 8: Mercutio vs. Romeo

On the morning of the dress rehearsal for Romeo And Juliet, Jack stood grimacing in the wings. He was cast as the hot-tempered swordsman, Tybalt, to better direct the tremendous dueling scenes he and Alphonse had worked up. Since so many minor characters had to be cut from the play due to scarcity of supernumaries in the company, and so much of the text had to be excised for the sake of propriety, Mr. Fairweather told Jack he had to depend on the fighting and the splendor of the Capulet ball to cut a dash.
 

Certainly, Henry Harding’s Mercutio could never be listed among the assets, even if it was his own benefit. Jack tried not to cringe as he watched Harding energetically mangle the lovely Queen Mab speech onstage, grinding out the poetry as if it were stringy beef to be gnashed into submission. There were not many compensations to playing Tybalt, but at least Jack would have the satisfaction of murdering this graceless Mercutio.

"Look, Owen, my prayers are answered! Catch me, ere I swoon!"

Jack turned to find Jane Kennett gazing at him in an attitude of dumbstruck delight while Violet Owen giggled at her side.

"We were just admiring your dress, Mr. Dance."

Jack glanced down at his indigo doublet and hose, pretty standard fare for Shakespeare in the provinces.

"You ought to have gone in for Romeo, Mr. Dance," added Mrs. Kennett. "His dress is even more revealing."

"I expect Mr. Bell fills out his tights to satisfaction," said Jack.

"As you do, sir."
    
Jack was long out of the habit of flirting, but he could not help but smile at the playful lewdness in those odd-colored eyes.

"Ladies, you shall make me blush."

"Oh, I doubt that, but how I should like to try," grinned Mrs. Kennett. "Your family does not go in much for blushing, I’ve noticed."

"If you mean my sister, she’s far too level-headed."

"And you are too cold-hearted, sir. You ought to have praised our dresses by now."

"Miss Owen, you are a perfect picture," Jack replied obediently, nodding at her gossamer Juliet gown. "The swains will be slaughtering each other in the boxes over you."

"Oh, Mr. Dance . . . " giggled the girl, and she hurried off to find her marks for her next entrance.

"And me?" Mrs. Kennett assumed an elaborate coquette’s attitude, all the more ironic given her outfit of voluminous skirts and shawls for the character of Juliet’s old Nurse.

"Are you not a little young for the Nurse?"

"Is that the best you can do?" sighed Mrs. Kennett. "I play bawds in this company, Mr. Dance, and bawds come in all ages. Of course, had I known you were going to look so killing as Tybalt, I should have gone in for Lady Capulet. Imagine the fun I would have throwing my body across your prostrate form after the fatal duel. I guarantee I should have made you blush then!"

"I don't doubt it!" Jack laughed. "But that would be a shameful way for Lady Capulet to use a kinsman."

"Oh, surely you don’t believe that ‘kinsman’ business, do you?" scoffed Mrs. Kennett. " 'O, kinsman! O, cousin!' No sensible woman becomes that distraught over her relations. Lady Capulet and Tybalt are not cousins, they’re lovers. Anyone can see that."

Nothing changed in Jack's expression as Mrs. Kennett glided away, but he felt a chill of alarm, all the same.

Tory had nothing to do in Romeo but decorate the Capulet ball in a fancy dress, so she had an excellent opportunity to watch the rest of the play unfold on performance night from between the side-scenes. Harding had risen to the occasion of filling the house. Jack told her it was the job of the actor receiving the benefit to stand as many potential patrons to drinks as he could drag into the alehouse in return for their pledges to attend. Harding’s popularity in the alehouses of Kelsingham was reflected in the character of the house, particularly the boisterous fellows and bawdy women crammed onto the pit benches, lustily feasting on oranges and walnuts and cheering Harding’s every entrance. In return, Harding lost no opportunity to march down to the edge of the stage to deliver every speech of more than two lines expressly to them.

After he had flung verse after verse of a speech into the pit in this manner, the trouble began. Forced to follow him downstage to fetch him back into the action, Christopher Bell as Romeo spoke the line, "Peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk’st of nothing" with perhaps too saucy an edge for Harding’s liking. The pit roared, but Mercutio was seen to visibly glower. From then on, whenever Harding took the stage with Bell, the kinsmen’s bawdy jesting became moments of ferocious competition. Harding grew ever more heated, but it was a game he could not win; verbal sparring was as natural as breathing to Mr. Bell, and despite his partisans in the pit, Harding began to perceive that he was giving ground, that Bell was somehow besting him at his own ben.

Tory could read the progression of Harding’s feelings in his face and manner, for, player though he was, he could not conceal his anger. It made him reckless. When Mercutio could not get the better of Romeo onstage, Harding contrived to linger between the scenes, awaiting Bell’s exits. Once, passing each other between the scenes, Tory heard Harding mutter, "We shall have to re-name the piece Molly And Juliet," which Bell ignored. When Mr. Gabriel’s friar ushered the young lovers offstage to be wed, Harding hissed, "Never was a husband less able to satisfy a bride." Poor Violet Owen fled backstage, but Bell, without breaking stride, murmured to Harding, "Fear not, my dear, you shall have your satisfaction soon enough."

How much of this kindling rivalry was visible to the audience, Tory could not tell. But the tension increased when Harding met Jack’s Tybalt onstage for their duel and Bell joined them. In the play, Tybalt’s obstinate attempts to lure Romeo into a fight were deflected by Romeo’s protests of love for the Capulets, to the angry impatience of Mercutio. But when this Romeo told Tybalt, "I . . . love thee better than thou canst devise," Kit Bell turned his face away from the house for an instant to eye Harding with an expression of such lewd invitation that Tory had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Bell finished the speech to Jack with absolute aplomb, but Harding was beside himself. As Mercutio cried, "O calm, dishonorable, vile submission!" he whipped out his sword and turned on Bell.

Jack saw that Harding had forgotten all about him in his rage to draw on Bell. Prop rapiers had dulled tips, but they could still batter and bruise and Romeo had yet to draw. Harding neglected to speak the lines inviting Tybalt into the fray, so Jack had to bound between Mercutio’s sword and Romeo to recall Harding to the text, and while the rest of Mercutio’s epithets were flung at Romeo, Jack fenced in double time to keep his weapon engaged. It was strenuous work, deflecting Mercutio’s blade when Romeo rushed unarmed between them, but Bell was skilled enough an athlete to dodge the worst of it until Jack had the opportunity to thrust the fatal blow against Mercutio. After that, Harding was too intent on his splendid death scene to waste any more effort baiting Christopher Bell. 

"'It was with no little relish'," Jane Kennett read aloud from the Kelsingham Advertiser two days later, "'that the audience at the Kelsingham Playhouse Wednesday last beheld the spectacle of Romeo And Juliet. Playgoers may be forgiven thinking they had stumbled by mistake into a farce. Most especially in Act III, when it appeared to require all the best efforts of Tybalt to prevent Mercutio from drawing against his own friend and kinsman, Romeo. We must praise the skill and dexterity of Mr. Dance’s Tybalt in reminding Mercutio who his opponent was'."

Tory could not help but smile. Certainly, Jack had never looked for any kind of notice in a role like Tybalt.

"What else does it say?" cried Violet eagerly.

"Oh, merely some fa-la-la about the 'sweet and affecting Juliet of Miss Owen'," Jenny teased, and the girl colored with pleasure. Jenny's eyes continued to scan down the page. "'Mr. Bell gives us a Romeo of fire, wit, grace and above all, youth, a refreshing change from the mature Romeos we so often see on the provincial stage.' Hmmm, Mr. F may not appreciate that. Still, he’ll be pleased for Kit. His majesty can be quite forgiving as long as his players don’t outright disgrace the company onstage."

"And there’s no mention at all of Harding?" Tory said drily.

"Ah, here it is, in the description of the comic opera after-piece. 'Mr. Harding dances prettily enough'." Jenny glanced up at the others, her odd eyes doing their own dance of mischief. "Well, he made his money, in any event. He’ll have to be satisfied with that."

"I’ll demand satisfaction," glowered Henry Harding into his tankard at the Pig And Piper, the tavern where he and some of the other gentleman players lodged. "That whelp, that wretched little sod made me a laughingstock!"

"Now, Hen, 'twas you chose the piece," George Plumleigh reminded him. "You can’t blame the lad for making the most of it."

"At my expense! I should have shone against Fairweather’s placid Romeo. That damned cur sabotaged my ben!"

"Well, you’ve had the last laugh, anyway. It’s your profit."

"Aye, for one night," muttered Harding. He tossed back the rest of his drink in a single gulp. "In the meantime, Bell and even Dance have enhanced their reputations at my expense. I’ll be stuck playing comic opera for the rest of the season." He swung up his tankard again and roared at the pot boy when he found it empty.

"Never mind, old sport," soothed Plumleigh. "We’ll give a new piece tomorrow night and all will be forgotten."

"Not by me." The boy brought another tankard and Harding stared into it, as if the entire blighted performance was being replayed there to torture him anew, amid the din and cursing and brash laughter and jesting of the taproom. These were his natural patrons, the only ones who appreciated his worth. They would not allow him to suffer this outrageous insult.

"It ought to be against the law," he began, his voice rising, "for a practitioner of that most odious and unmanly vice to profane so noble a role as Romeo upon the stage of a decent town."

"B’God, Hen, if actors were forbidden to play because of their vices, there’d never be another play performed!" Plumleigh laughed.

"Jest if you will, Plum," Harding replied gravely. "But if such fellows, one can scarcely call 'em men, receive our approbation upon the stage, where shall it end? Our streets, our towns, our homes shall not be safe from their vile influence. Our very children shall be at risk!" He had worked himself up to his most stentorian stage voice, by now. Several fellows occupying benches and tables nearby had suspended their own quarrels and revels to listen. " It grieves me to think of the world our sons will inherit."

"Hear, hear," responded a burly young fellow at the next table, saluting Harding with his own tankard. His two companions nodded and muttered in agreement.

"Their sort of corruption should not be allowed to run free, infecting decent folk," Harding declared. "It must be the duty of all men, all real men, to resist it!"

The three young men at the next table, the aimless and choleric sort who infested alehouses at every hour of the day, were still talking heatedly among themselves when Harding bid Plumleigh good night and swept out of the taproom. He’d have his satisfaction, now, and it would cost him nothing.

 

Top: Samuel Sangster, ca 1870
Above R: Nathan Thompson
Above L: F. Barnard ca 1853

CHAPTER 7: Love Denied

She was alone in a warm place, a safe place. Salt in the air, soft powdery sand under her back and the heat of the sun like warm honey on her bare skin. A beach, then. A cove.

Warm water lapped at her toes, then caressed the arch of her foot. It came higher, a warm, damp trail along her leg, sweet and urgent as a mouth, making wet, lazy patterns up the inner curve of her thigh, teasing, exploring. She shuddered as strong hands cupped her  and her hips rose, straining against that hungry mouth, cradling that dark head in her lap.

Jack.

His kisses were moving up over her belly. She glimpsed his dark, merry eyes and his crooked grin before he lowered his face again and his mouth was on her, again, murmuring over her, nibbling, sucking. She was as taut as kindling, ready to ignite, the warm, heavy weight of his body rocking up and back and up, and her own body arched upwards and she locked her legs around him and groaned.

And the sun and the heat and the sand and Jack all melted into shadows and Tory was lying alone in the dark. All that was left was a hard, hot, aching knot between her legs, a deep, gaping tumor of longing. The little wooden day-bed was creaking under her, the linens soaked in sweat. She stared hard into the blackness at the grey square of window above her, trying to get her bearings. Above the roar of her own blood in her ears, she heard voices, living voices nearby, soft, sharp whispers in the dark.

"Dreaming of her poor, dead husband, I suppose," came an eager voice she recognized as Violet Owen's.
    
Hellfire, were they still awake, Violet and Mrs. Kennett? Had she cried out in her sleep? Had she spoken Jack’s name? It was difficult enough to dissemble every waking minute of the day, must she tell lies in her sleep, as well? Tory was not actress enough to bear it much longer. How was she to sleep, now, slow her racing heartbeat, quell the longing inside? It was a physical pain, now, like a punch in the belly, she’d need a dose of physick to get rid of it. But she made herself lie still, straining to hear what the others were saying.    

"Did you hear her groan?" Violet tittered.

"I expect they heard it in Bristol."

"It must be awful to lose a husband so young."

"Oh, it might have been worse," Mrs. Kennett murmured. "He might have lingered on another thirty years until she grew thoroughly sick of him."

"Sssh, Jenny, what if she heard you?"

"She won’t. See, she’s dropped off, again."

"Fancy her coming all the way back from America, after. To be with her brother."

"Who else would have her, a widow with no income?" Mrs. Kennett reasoned. "Although, I confess, I’d cross an ocean or two for such a brother."

"Would you? Our Mr. Dance?"

"Quite a tasty specimen. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed, Owen."

"Why . . . it’s not as if he were truly handsome, like Kit . . ."

"No mortal is. Still, there’s a life lived in that face. To say nothing of the rest."

"He does have rather romantic eyes," giggled the younger woman. "And such a voice! When he cries, ‘I would my tears let fall upon your cheek,’ I get a fever, I really do!"

"Eyes, voice, tears," scoffed Mrs. Kennett. "That’s for poets. I like the cut of his legs. I pine to see him in tights."

"Jenny!"

It irritated Tory to hear Jack discussed in pieces, like a slave on the auction block. He was more than parts to her, her other half, her compañero, the partner of her soul. She didn’t like to hear him verbally dismembered, like something on display in a butcher shop.     

"He’s been all round the mulberry bush a time or two, depend upon it," Jenny Kennett went on. "I like a man who knows what he’s about. D’you suppose he has any interesting birthmarks?"

Tory swallowed a desperate sigh as the women giggled again. What if she told them of the little mole on Jack’s chest, over his heart? What would they make of the grid of pale flogging scars that disfigured his back, how romantic would they find those? And yet, she would have forfeit her wages for a year just to feel the seamed flesh of Jack’s back under her fingertips right this moment. Was he still having his old nightmares? What would he do when she wasn’t beside him to chase the bad dreams away?

And what would she do now, if that predatory Mrs. Kennett set her sights on Jack? Or one of the other ladies; that Miss Bishop, the dancer, was a fair, pretty little thing. Jack was perfectly capable of defending himself, but would he want to? He must be lonely, too. Tory bit down on her tongue to smother another groan and turned over in the comfortless little bed, far too miserable now to sleep.

Jack was glad enough to relinquish the English Harlequin and his simpering dance steps to Henry Harding as the holiday season grew near and they performed the pantomime more frequently. The great Kean had begun as Harlequin, of course, but Jack still felt a fool playing Harlequin in dance slippers, especially with Tory watching from the wings with that appalled look on her face. But Harding had his fans, and the pantos were popular. Then too, Harlequin's half-mask disguised the worst of Harding's face as his bruises healed and he began to resume his usual roles.

Tonight, as happened too often of late when he thought of Tory, Jack loitered downstairs at the Blue Fox until he saw Alphonse go up to their room so his friend wouldn't see him wasting coin on a pint in the tavern.  He was heading toward the shadowy end of the bar for his nightly wallow in self-pity when two of the other gentlemen players strolled into the room. Young Mr. Bell nodded to him, but the more effusive Mr. Plumleigh waved him over, so Jack swallowed a sigh, took up his glass and joined them at the bar.

"Mr. Dance, we require a third opinion!" Plumleigh hailed him, before signaling to the barman.

"Yes, which of Harding's fictions do you find most plausible?" purred Bell.

"I . . . scarcely know the man," Jack said diplomatically. Nor had he spared much thought, let alone concern, over what may have befallen him.

"Cherish your good fortune for as long as it lasts," said Mr. Bell.

"Oh, come, lad, Hen isn't as bad as all that," Plumleigh chuckled. "Perhaps a bit over fond of the card rooms. I've known him to hire a gig and drive to Bath in the middle of the night for a game." He turned again to Bell. "So, you see, he might well have been robbed of his winnings."

"If he had any," countered Bell.

"He's not fortunate at cards?" Jack asked, just to be saying something. He didn't know what interested him less, Henry Harding or backstage gossip in general.

"Hen? Swears his debts will be the ruin of him!" Plumleigh laughed, with a genial wave of his tankard.

"I believe they very nearly were," said Bell, with an elegant sip from his glass. "The blows of a jealousy-maddened husband should have been far less precise."

Jack wondered idly what young Mr. Bell could possibly know of either blows or jealous husbands. "But it makes for a better story," he suggested, "casting himself as the reckless seducer?"

"Oh, that part is perfectly true," said Plumleigh. "No member of the fair sex is safe around Henry Harding."

If possible, Jack felt even more miserable.

"As a victim of sheer chance, I throw myself upon your mercy, Mr. Fairweather." Henry Harding shifted forward in his chair opposite the manager’s desk in the tiny cupboard off the prop room Fairweather called his office. "Of course, I should hate for any hint of shabbiness to reflect poorly on this company."

"Your concern is commendable, sir," said Fairweather. "But a theatrical company operates on a kind of speculation, every cost accounted against probable returns at the box office. It is a very delicate balance. A larger salary for you now the season has begun would have to be siphoned off from some other legitimate expense that might ill afford the loss."

"You found a surplus when you hired Dance and his crew."

"That was a calculated risk against the catastrophic loss we would certainly incur should we fail to perform Twelfth Night at the request of our patron. In any event, they are satisfied with very little. You request a great deal."

"But have I not cause?" Harding urged.

Fairweather refrained from pointing out that arriving late for the season in deplorable condition, scarcely fit to go onstage, was more likely cause for a fine than a raise in salary. Instead, he said, "You have been ill-used, Mr. Harding. But even if we were to sell out the playhouse every night for the next four weeks, I could not spare what you ask. We should all be turned out of doors. But I am willing to offer you a benefit night, and as soon as you like."

Harding cast down his eyes, mulling it over, as Fairweather waited. An industrious player might make much of his ben, the night all profits were turned over to him, after house expenses. In general, the earliest bens in the season were reserved for the brightest stars in the company’s firmament, a Richard Gabriel or a George Plumleigh, before the company’s presence grew stale in the town. The manager hoped Harding understood the generosity of his offer. He knew he risked discord among the other gentlemen players to make it. 

"I . . .  I will take it," Harding murmured, at last.

"Splendid! Let us decide upon your parts. A comedy for the main, I would imagine, with perhaps a harlequinade to follow, to display your dancing — "

"I . . . have something different in mind," Harding interrupted. "With your permission, sir."

"Why, a player chooses his own parts for his ben, of course."

"Then I desire to play Mercutio for my main piece."

Fairweather struggled not to respond with outright dismay. "Romeo And Juliet, eh? Not quite what the public expects from a fellow in the light comedy line, is it?"

"But that is the very thing. I wish to broaden my line. Mercutio is a comic sort of fellow, after all. A great deal of dancing may be got out of his swordfights."

Fairweather bit back his protest. Harding was accustomed to playing Tybalt, another athletic role whose text was not terribly demanding. Mercutio was something else, again. "Perhaps," the manager spoke at last. "But successful bens present the player to advantage in his best-known parts. You risk much, Mr. Harding."

"All of life is a gamble, Mr. Fairweather."

"Very well, then. But we shall have to re-cast. As you know, Mr. Bell is our usual Mercutio." Fairweather frowned down at his desk another moment before the idea occurred to him. "But, of course! I shall put Mr. Bell in for Romeo!"

Harding’s face clouded on the instant. "But that is your part."

"Only when Mrs. F is fit for Juliet, which she most certainly is not, at present. Indeed, it’s high time we stepped aside to try Mr. Bell and Miss Owen in those roles. Oh, yes, that will do very well!"

"But you own Romeo! I could not think of depriving you!"

"Come, sir, Mr. Bell shall draw a much larger house than myself in the role."

"But a house full of what?" Harding leaned forward in a confidential manner. "Miscreants and other debauchees? Not to speak ill, but you know what he is."

"Pish, Mr. Bell is wildly popular with the ladies, as well as with gentlemen of a certain, er, character. The more the merrier, eh, Mr. Harding? It is your ben, after all."

"Exactly so. I don’t want a house full of Bell’s admirers."

Fairweather looked at him with stark incredulity.

"Any house that pays is a house you want, sir."

CHAPTER 6: Enter Clown

Tory spun around, her wooden sword upraised, to see a dark shape lurching toward her from beneath a cluster of ladies' gowns along the opposite wall. In the dimness of the room, she could make out only a dark, grotesque gargoyle face, and she feinted out from beneath the creature's grasp, stumbling sideways through the far doorway into the backstage. Grasping both ends of her wooden sword in both hands, she thrust it up when the creature came at her again, arrested its momentum for an instant, then shoved it to one side with a burst of desperate strength. 

 

Whatever it was, it toppled heavily to the stage floor with a wounded howl, and she scrambled away, crushed by her stays and choking on her own hammering heartbeat, but finding her footing with a tumbler’s instinct, ready to fight or flee.

“Mrs. Lightfoot! Good heavens!” Mr. Fairweather and Mr. Ingram were galloping across the backstage toward her, with Aunt Hat huffing along behind them.

Tory tried to wave them back, even though her assailant had not moved again, sprawled face-down on the floor. She kept backing away until she felt Aunt Hat’s steadying hand at her waist.

“But . . . are you all right, my dear?” cried Fairweather, hovering anxiously between Tory and the creature on the floor. “What is it, what’s happened?”

Tory didn’t know what it was, only pointed as Mr. Ingram circled the inert body, prodded it by the shoulder and finally knelt beside it. Ingram hefted the creature over onto its back and Tory saw not a monster but the face of a man that had suffered some calamity. One eye was almost completely swollen shut within a puffy yellowing bruise that seemed to cover half his face. Aunt Hat gasped, as Fairweather leaned in for a closer look.

Tory glanced doubtfully at her cheap prop sword. "I don't believe I ever actually struck him . . . " she began.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Lightfoot," sighed Ingram, with a sniff and a frown as he straightened up again. "I'll wager he was much the worse for wear already by the time you encountered him." Glancing at Fairweather, he added, "As usual."

Tory blinked from one gentleman to the other. "You know him?"

Fairweather sighed as well.    “It’s our Mr. Harding, isn't it?”

 

Jack cast a last rueful glance down at Sebastian’s breeches, porridge-colored nankeen masquerading as satin. Shakespearean costume in the provinces was still mired in the Garrick era, that had not changed in the ten years he’d been away. The Fairweathers were at least respectable enough to provide an outfit for Sebastian; players often had to find their own dress.

It was a dress rehearsal for Twelfth Night. Jack stepped back as Mrs. Kennett’s Maria came flouncing offstage and Gabriel and Miss Owen hurried on for Malvolio and Olivia. Jack admired Gabriel’s Malvolio; the part suited the aloof gravity and melancholy of the actor’s offstage personality as well as the comic pomposity that was his specialty onstage.

As George Plumleigh positioned himself to go on as Sir Toby Belch, Jack saw Tory nearby in her pink satin breeches. That Harding fellow was lurking deeper in the shadows, gazing at Tory’s stockinged legs, and Jack felt a surge of protective anger, followed by an urge to laugh at his own impotent indignation. But Harding felt Jack’s glance and shifted his own gaze to Plumleigh’s thick shanks, as if skittering about from one pair of legs to the next was some meaningless exercise his eyes performed on their own account. No wonder the fellow had got his face punched, if this was how he behaved.

The company was all abuzz with Henry Harding’s sudden and dramatic return. When ladies were present, he swore he’d been set upon by footpads who assaulted him and stole his money, so that he was obliged to walk from Bristol to Kelsingham. But upon his arrival, afraid to face Fairweather looking as he did, he attempted to bolster his courage with a pint or two, then crept unobserved into the playhouse hoping to sleep it off. Only to be confronted by God-knew-what sort of alcohol-induced demon in breeches and sword. It was a comic tale in which he cast himself as the sympathetic clown, but privately, Harding had told some of the gentleman players a different story about a delectable lady and a jealous husband.

“You’ve an admirer,” Jack whispered to Tory, moving closer to block the fellow’s view. “Mr. Harding likes the look of your legs.”

"My limbs, you mean? How uncivil of him to say so."

"I saw him looking. Had he said such a thing to your brother, I’d be obliged to call him out. I’m not much of a shot, you know."

"Then you’d best keep your mouth shut." She turned again toward the stage and Jack was staring at the back of her head.

"You’re not still angry about Bristol, are you, Rusty?"

"I’m not angry." Her hushed voice might have iced butter.

"I told you, we had a miserable time," Jack protested, leaning closer, his voice very low. "It was bitterly cold. Jepson was not expected back in his office until Christmas. Alphonse refused to waste money on a gig or a decent dinner so we walked all over the city and ate indifferently grilled cockles at a fishmonger’s stall and I was bilious in the coach all the way back. You missed nothing."

"I missed you," Tory whispered as Plumleigh lumbered past them onto the stage. Turning partway to face Jack again, she added, softer still, "I miss you."

It took every atom of Jack’s will not to take her in his arms right there. He could only gaze at her helplessly, their eyes holding each other when their arms could not. Then the call-boy hissed in the shadows and Tory marched on for Cesario’s first scene with Olivia. Watching her navigate the stage in those ridiculous breeches, Jack could not help but think of the first time he had ever seen her in boy's clothing, a ragged hoyden in ill-fitting sailor’s rig on the deck of a ship. It made him smile and ache all the more, his vision so clouding over with memory that he almost collided with Richard Gabriel coming offstage; Jack had to dance aside with a hasty "Sorry."

"Steady on, old man, it’s only a dress." Gabriel caught his elbow for the briefest instant. "You wouldn’t want to spoil that lovely outfit."

"Oh, aye, Richard, mock a fellow when he’s down . . . "

Richard Gabriel melted into the shadows, but his eyes followed Jack onstage. Not many people called him by his Christian name, but he didn’t mind it from Jack. Newcomers who joined an established company were often insufferably deferential or else so determined to prove themselves that they became quite obnoxious. Jack was neither. Nor was he jealous of his parts, taking whatever he was given with admirable grace. As if he had a separate life beyond the stage to sustain him, which was what Richard found so intriguing. That Jack, too, might have a secret life.

He was playing a scene with that lout, Harding, reduced to going on for Antonio in a plumed hat that hid his bruised face. The two men bore a superficial resemblance to each other: dark-haired, tall and well-made. Harding was an adequate dancer if you went in for the vulgar, hornpipes, clog dances and the like, but he was an indifferent actor, cheeky and obvious and always too sleek-looking for the part. He even bore his bruises with a kind of smug conceit. Jack was more roughly made and careless of his appearance — he had the look of someone who had spent a great deal of time out-of-doors — yet, even in that silly outfit, Jack commanded a kind of respect onstage that Harding, for all his preening, would never know.

Where had the fellow been keeping himself? And what of his close friendship with that odd exotic, Belair? Whenever Richard asked, in a polite, roundabout way, Jack would say only that he had been out of the country for awhile. But Richard had glimpsed the faded scars on Jack’s back, for all the trouble Jack took to keep them hidden. And Richard could not help but wonder who he was and what sort of life he had lived. For what reason had it pleased God to lead him into this company? Into Richard’s room?

Richard never saw Jack in the company of women, but for that sister he was so fond of, not even that artful Kennett woman who was always sniffing about. He bantered with the actresses, as any man must, but he never pursued them, offstage. Nor had Richard ever seen him accost any of the harlots who haunted the neighborhood on play nights. Yet, Jack must have appetites, like other men. Richard had been discreet thus far, no one knew better the punishments visited upon the unwary.

But only consider the rewards.

Above: Twelfth Night painting by William Hamilton, 1790

CHAPTER 5: Whimsical Fate

The coffee room of the Blue Fox tavern was the best place to be on a cold, frosty morning. Alphonse Belair perched upon his window seat near the fire to reflect upon the whimsical fate that had brought him here. Stage illusion was not unlike the sort of playing he had done all his life: the ignorant darky he played as a slave child in the sugar islands; the burlesque of a gentleman he played as a wage servant to an English planter who dressed him in tailored clothing and taught him fine speech and manners to amuse his guests. He had even played at revolution, assisting runaway slaves under cover of busking with Jack and Victoria. Until the risk became too great.

Alphonse ate the last of his baked fish, pungent with black pepper and cloves, and sipped at his coffee. The spices came from the nearby seaport of Bristol and they were the only thing that made him feel at home in this cold, foreign place. Jack and Victoria had brought him here to England, where no man was permitted to own another, to save his life, at no little risk to their own. His debt to them both was enormous. But he could not idle forever in Kelsingham, with so much work yet to be done. The English government must be persuaded to abolish slavery from without, or more uprisings and and revolutions would destroy the islands from within. But he had seen enough of this country already to know that nothing was achieved without money and nothing was despised so much as poverty. In which respect, England was exactly like the Indies.

Alphonse saw Mr. Ingram, the prompter and stage manager, coming down the road to open the playhouse across the street. Jack said the best way for a new member of any company to get on was to make himself useful at the theatre every day. And Alphonse intended to get on. His Clown was considered a success, and in addition, he and Jack juggled in the interlude and taught somersaults and feints to the other men for the dueling scenes; he had even gone on as a demon in a Gothic melodrama. And he settled up promptly with their landlord here at the tavern on Saturday nights, after the players received their wages at the playhouse.

Through the open door to the taproom, he could see Jack just coming down the stairs behind the bar. He must have slipped out of their room while Mr. Gabriel was still asleep, or he would have been detained for another half-hour. Alphonse sipped again at his coffee and reflected upon Richard Gabriel, a veteran player in his early forties who was in the eccentric and high comedy business, although a more melancholy comedian Alphonse could not imagine. How could any free man wth the means to earn an honest living appear to be so discontented as Richard Gabriel? Long-faced with a thin hawk’s nose and sharp grey eyes, he had no particular friends in the company. His manner was formal and furtive, compounded by an ostentatious piety; Gabriel knew as many Biblical quotes as Jack knew Shakespeare. But Jack had the devil’s own intuition about getting on with people. With Gabriel, he spoke the language of the theatre, putting him at ease.

Now, Jack paused at the foot of the stairs to hail an urchin before strolling into the coffee room in the modest dark frock coat, slim tan trousers, and clean linen he’d purchased with his first wages.

"The boy’s been to the printer’s for the new bill," he announced, sliding into the seat opposite Alphonse and handing him a buff-colored paper to read.

Theatre Kelsingham
announces for Tuesday, the First of December
the patriotic drama of
THE COMMODORE or Honor Betrayed

Alphonse glanced down the cast-list. "'Commodore Valiant, Mr. Miles Fairweather,'" he read aloud. Glancing at Jack, he went on, "The gallant English naval officer, I suppose, given to fine speeches. But  . . . "

"Temporarily poisoned by jealousy and bad counsel," Jack filled in for him, as he signaled the boy for a cup of coffee.

"Recovers himself in time for the heroic finale, however," noted Alphonse. His eyes continued down the bill. "Ah, the young lovers. 'Lieut. Goforth, Mr. Christopher Bell' and 'Lenora Valiant, Miss Violet Owen.' The commodore's daughter?" Jack nodded. "But there is an impediment . . .  ah, 'Vexworth, Master-at-Arms, Mr. George Plumleigh.' The wicked seducer, covets the lady for himself and sends the lad off on a dangerous mission."

"Persuades the commodore to throw him in the brig for treason."

"Ah, a court martial scene, lots of brass," agreed Alphonse. "In the meantime, poor Miss Valiant has no one but  . . .  mmm . . . her faithful companion, 'Mag Magruder, Mrs. Jane Kennett' to defend her from . . . brigands?"

Jack pointed out the designation on the bill.

Turks, Mr. Jack Dance, Mr. Stephen Fairweather

"Turks, yes," Alphonse frowned over the paper. "Who somehow abduct the ladies  . . . " his eyes rose to meet Jack’s, " . . . to sell into a harem?"

"Voila!" Jack grinned.

Alphonse shook his head and found the announcement for the after-piece, In Society, a farce about three women searching for husbands during the London season. Mrs. Charlotte Fairweather would appear as their patroness, Lady Hubris. The ladies were to be played by Miss Owen, Mrs. Kennett and Mrs. Swan.

"Still nothing for Victoria?"  said Alphonse.

"She’s only a super, she won’t get billing playing harem girls and society ladies. Not until Fairweather brings her out as Viola."

Alphonse scanned down the cast-list for the farce and saw Jack’s name at the bottom, in the character of Swindle, a rogue.

"You ought to have better parts," he said.

"Fairweather knows me only as a busker fit for playing rogues and Harlequin. Besides, a fellow can’t waltz in off the street and give Hamlet, there’s a hierarchy to these things. And Shakespeare does not appear to be much in vogue, in any case, at least not at the Theatre Kelsingham."

"Still, if you had more . . . business, would you not earn more?"

"At last we come to the point," said Jack, setting down his cup. "Aye, if I led the business in comedy or tragedy, my salary would be larger, but those positions are filled. I think it damned handsome of Fairweather to find us each a pound a week, as it is."

"Mr. Fairweather has been more than generous," Alphonse agreed.

"Of course, if we could manage to fill the house now and then, all our salaries might increase," Jack went on.

"Perhaps some of these bills should be posted in Bristol," said Alphonse. "All this nautical business ought to draw a house, as you say."

"There’s extra pay for posting bills," Jack followed his thought. "No one else will want to make the journey on such a bitter day." His voice lowered. "But, you’re not likely to drum up much abolitionist sentiment in Bristol."

"But my friend, Mr. Jepson, keeps an office there. I believe it is time to call on him." Alphonse saw the effect the name had on Jack. Jepson was a gentleman of color they had known in the Indies, who had inherited a prosperous merchant shipping business from his white English father and was much involved in the abolitionist movement. He had told Alphonse once that slavery was bad for business, depending for one's profits upon a hostile, unpaid labor force. Alphonse's association with Mr. Jepson had almost cost all their lives, but he had also been a great friend to them in the islands when they most needed one, so Jack did not protest.

"Only have a care," said Jack. "The aboltionist movement is legal in England, even popular in some circles, but it’s still a dangerous business. Bristol got rich off the slave trade when it was legal and enterprising captains profit by it still."

"And so they shall, until the institution of slavery itself is abolished along with the transport of slaves," Alphonse sighed. "Leave it to English justice to devise two conflicting laws when they cannot make up their minds about a thing."

"Justice and law have only a nodding acquaintance in the civilized world," Jack agreed. He drained off his cup. "I know Bristol pretty well."

"Are you not called this morning?"

"I believe I’m sufficiently up in Swindle and the First Turk. "

"Then, let us go to Bristol," said Alphonse.

Icy air rattled like hailstones in their lungs as they stepped outside into the grey morning. Alphonse went across the street and into the playhouse to see about the bills, but Jack remained in the street, absorbed in his own thoughts. Their talk had made him think of their former life together in the Indies, slavery, riot, rebellion, all the things they had fled the islands to escape. They had so many secrets that were best left buried in the past. That Mr. Jepson was as near as Bristol made Jack wonder what other aspects of that old life might yet follow them to England.    

"Pirate's Curse!"

Jack started so violently, he nearly upset the small boy bleating at his elbow, a sheaf of papers under his arm.

"What?

"Ballad of the Pirate's Curse. Ha'penny a sheet. Savage villains of the sea! Read about the reward!"

Jack thrust a coin into the outstretched paw and the boy handed him a paper and scampered off. Most of the broadsheet was devoted to a lurid ballad about rampaging pirates brought low by heroic English justice on the high seas. But printed below the ballad was a banner announcing a cash reward for information leading to the capture and conviction of suspected pirates. The reward was offerred by a group calling itself the Society for Moral Decency. Their office was in Bristol.

"Perhaps it would be safer to go another day." Alphonse had materialized at his side, gazing down from Jack's elbow to the paper he held in his hand.

"There is no safe, as you once explained to me," Jack muttered. "Only constant vigilance."

"That was in the islands."

Jack said nothing. He had promised Tory and Alphonse they would be safe in England. A promise he must keep, whatever the cost. "This is probably nothing," he spoke up, at length. "Some novelty to sell more sheets. Let's be off."

Alphonse nodded and stole a last look at the clumsy woodcut of a demonic pirate face before Jack folded up the paper. Then he glanced up at his friend.

"That was all long ago," Alphonse told him. "In the past."

If only it would stay there, Jack thought, and he thrust the folded paper deep into his pocket. 

"Ow!"

"Sorry, dear, but you’re a deal taller than our Carlie. I must be sure the adjustments are correct."

Aunt Hat, seamstress and wardrobe-keeper when she wasn’t looking after her niece and her family, bustled all around Tory, frowning at the way Charlotte Fairweather’s costume sat upon her. She gave the hem of the frilly satin waistcoat one last tug and Tory gasped, grabbing the shelf beneath the glass for support. It was not nerves that stole her breath away, although she was nervous enough as her Viola debut approached. No, it was these damned stays that Mrs. Kennett had forced upon her, a heavy cotton torture device criss-crossed with seams stiffened by whalebone, and laced up mercilessly in back. Mrs. Kennett declared that every respectable lady must wear them in public, and it must be so, for Tory was not allowed to remove them, not even in costume as the boy, Cesario.

"There you are, dear," beamed Aunt Hat. "What do you think?"

Tory thought she looked ridiculous. Cesario’s costume was a faded pink satin ensemble of short, fitted jacket, waistcoat and breeches. A great foolery of ribbons and lace adorned everything and the low-cut neckline of the waistcoat revealed the swell of Tory’s bosom, forced mercilessly upwards by her stays.

"You don’t think I look a trifle . . . female?" she ventured.    

"Why, Lord bless you, dear, there’s no point putting a girl in breeches if she actually looks like a boy!"

Unless she was trying to survive as a boy, a subject Tory knew a great deal about. Jack would laugh himself sick when he saw her. But he wouldn’t see her today; he and Alphonse had gone larking off to Bristol without her. Just as well, she thought sourly. She would not have to struggle through another day pretending to a sister's careless affection, suppressing the longing in her heart for the man she loved. She could save her acting for the stage.

She sighed as deeply as the stays would allow and caught another glimpse of herself in the glass. Of course, as Viola's twin, Sebastian's dress must be very similar to this. And the thought of Jack in pink satin knee breeches restored Tory's humor on the instant.

Aunt Hat bustled out to fetch Mr. Fairweather, who was closeted away in his tiny office off the property room with Mr. Ingram. No one else was about at this early hour; the players were not called until later and young Trot was off about some errand. And as Tory turned about in the dressing room, surrounded by her own image reflected in the mirrors, somewhat distorted in the wavering lamplight, she began to realize how eerie an empty playhouse could be. Stillness felt unnatural in a place so accustomed to action and noise and hilarity. She peered through the doorway into the wardrobe, where the dresses hung up on two opposite rows of racks were like an army of ghosts, sighing and rustling and groaning.
   

Tory froze, and listened again. By God, there was something groaning in the next room, it was not her imagination. She took one hesitant step into the wardrobe and waited. There it was again, she was certain, soft and low, like a whimper. But a distressed human sound; that’s what sent ice down her spine.
   

Her hand closed on the hilt of a wooden prop sword thrust into the belt of the nearest costume on the rack, a canvas tunic painted to resemble chain mail. She drew it out to poke gingerly between the next two items of men's dress. And the next two, finding only empty shadows within, comforted by the mundane scrape of the hangers across the rack. As she aimed her sword toward the next two costumes, she heard another low and menacing noise. 

This time it was right behind her.

Above: An Actress at Her Toilet or Miss Brazen just Breecht After John Collett, c 1779