“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
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