Jack had long forbidden himself to remember the green, rural England of his boyhood. During the first lonely, brutal years at sea, it was easier to forget such a place had ever existed, where he had once been young and happy and loved, and life seemed so full of promise. His memory of England became a dream, not of something lost but of something that had never been, and Jack abandoned it with all the other childish dreams that had been flogged out of him over time.
But it all returned to him, now, as he clung to his outside perch on top of the stage-coach to Bath and the green vales, marshy bottoms and vast sheep downs of Wessex peeled away on either side. Jack had gotten a place up on the box, next to the coachman, and the rocking of the coach and the racket of the pole-chains and the snorting of the horses were like an old lullaby. He had spent his youth in horse-carts on the road to markets and country fairs all over England, nine months out of every twelve, although in his memory, it was always green, fragrant summer. He was a tumbler’s boy, then, a foundling coached and sheltered by a kindly old acrobat and his wife, the only parents Jack had ever known.
Jack did not often like to think of his foster parents, it was too painful. He had been fifteen when he'd run off with a troupe of strollers, never dreaming he would never see his parents again. Never suspecting his grand acting career would end in a Thameside grog shop whose landlord stole his pay and sold him into service on a merchant vessel too disreputable to get a crew by any other means. Thousands of career seamen on half-pay after the French wars, desperate for a ship, yet it was the tumblers' boy shipped away from everything he knew and loved. But it didn’t hurt as much, now, to remember his foster parents spry and happy when he was still a boy, driving the horse-cart to the next market town. He thought he had forgotten all about the boy he was and the land that bred him. He never expected to come back to England at all; he had certainly never expected to feel this fierce tug of renegade joy when he did.
It was just after noon when the coach from Southampton deposited them at an inn in the High Street of the town of Kelsingham, headquarters of what Mr. Fairweather called his Wessex circuit. It was the vestigial remains of an old country tour in operation half a century earlier that had fallen into neglect and disuse.
"The provincial drama is in a sorry state, isn’t it, Mr. Dance?" Miles Fairweather declared, as they transferred themselves and their things into the wagon waiting to carry them to the playhouse. "Many towns can scarcely support a summer theatre and those that do survive must content themselves with half-empty seats, unless there is some sensation to fill the house. And yet, we poor players must eat in all seasons, mustn’t we? That is why we undertake this winter tour."
"You don’t suffer from the proximity of Bath and Bristol?" Jack asked. Kelsingham was situated on the coach road halfway between these towns, each of which boasted a Theatre Royal with its own winter season.
"My boy, we thrive upon it!" cried Fairweather. "The port of Bristol and the pump rooms of Bath are busy in every season and there is a great deal of traffic between the two. Our little Theatre Rural draws custom from both places, in addition to the kind support of the good people of Kelsingham and the smaller places we visit on our tour."
Jack hid his smile at the thought of theatrical hamlets even smaller than Kelsingham. What sort of public rooms, malthouses and barns would they find masquerading as playhouses on the Fairweather circuit?
He got his first look soon enough. It had not been built as a theatre, Jack could see that, situated at the edge of town on a strip of common that had once been private or pasture land. Jack guessed it had been a barn or warehouse. The commercial establishments that had sprung up around it — tobacconist, pastry-cook’s, the inevitable tavern — looked to be of more recent vintage. But the building had been fitted up for a playhouse with some skill; a wooden awning framed the front entrance and the row of small, square windows above suggested a gallery within. Modest it may be, but it was a theatre.
Tory, too, was gazing up at the playhouse, but with undisguised apprehension. She had never performed on anything more substantial than an open-air platform in a field in the Indies. What business had she in such a place?
"Oh, Jack, I can never go through with this."
"Don’t make me remind you this was your idea, sister dear."
She glanced at him, expecting his glare, but found him grinning at her instead. The same plain facade that looked so forbidding to her seemed to bathe Jack’s face in warmth, like a sun. And she realized it was not only the Fairweathers she must not disappoint.
Jack hopped out of the wagon to hand her down, now that she was back in her female rig, the linen skirt and bodice she'd worn for tumbling in the islands, under her brown woolen cloak, her boy's trousers on under her skirt for warmth. Alphonse stood in the bed, handing their satchels down to Jack, then boosting the Fairweather’s trunk over the side to the driver. Alphonse had the strength of a small ox, but Tory thought he might also wish to postpone the inevitable, awkward moment when he must light to the ground and stand waist-high among his fellows.
Tory offered her arm to pale Mrs. Fairweather, who really looked quite done in from the journey.
"Why, thank you, my dear," Mrs. Fairweather smiled, willing away her fatigue with her customary good cheer. "The ladies are all in the wardrobe today, choosing their dresses. You’ll be anxious to meet ‘em. Come, Fairweather!"
Inside, the faint aroma of orange peel and lamp oil and dust lingered like forgotten ghosts in the air. But as the others proceeded down the aisle toward the stage, Jack drew Tory back a little.
"Before you go in to the ladies, Rusty, remember you must mind what you say in company," he told her. "We are in the civilized world, now. Players are assumed to be tramps and tarts, so they are more particular than most about the gentility of their speech. Even on a subject as mundane as clothing." He nodded vaguely behind him, where, Tory supposed, the wardrobe was located. “Certain items cannot be spoken of at all, or must be referred to in code. Any lady’s garment that cannot be seen in public cannot be named. They are called ‘inexpressibles’."
Tory began to giggle, but Jack’s look cut her off.
"As to a gentleman’s clothing, you are safe enough with hat, cravat, greatcoat, boots. You may even speak of a waistcoat. 'Stockings' may be mentioned in very liberal company, but never 'shirt' ..."
"I must not say the word 'shirt?'"
"Best not to even think it. And should the vulgar occasion arise — and I dare not imagine what it might be — when you are compelled to refer to . . ." he pinched a wrinkle of his trousers. "The polite expression is 'nether garments'."
"But this is utter nonsense," said Tory. "If a thing has a perfectly useful name, why not use it?"
"A lady cannot speak in familiar terms of a gentleman’s shirt and trousers. It implies an unseemly familiarity with what lies beneath 'em. And the only word you may use for that, by the way, is 'limbs,' or 'nether limbs.' Or 'trunk'."
Tory knew exactly what lay beneath Jack’s clothing, as dim as the memory was, and as uncivilized as her own life had been in the islands, she could not be the only female in England privy to such information.
"As a rule, any article of clothing that touches naked flesh must be euphemised — so perhaps I ought to reconsider about the stockings," Jack hurried on. "And all of this applies only to mixed company. What women speak of on their own, well, you’ll soon know more about that than I do."
From the apron of the stage, Tory had little time to torture herself imagining the pit and boxes and gallery filled with laughing, expectant ticket-holders. She was too busy nodding and smiling to some gentlemen of the company whom the Fairweathers had surprised gossiping in the wings.
"Here’s Mr. Warendale, who does our hearty old gentlemen . . . Mr. Plumleigh, our heavy man . . . Mr. Amos, our property man . . . young Trot, our call-boy . . . Mr. Gabriel, who leads the business in eccentric high comedy . . . "
And from these gentlemen came the empty gallantries that spun so readily off the English tongue, "Your servant, Madame . . . delighted . . . honored . . . charmed . . ."
In general, they greeted her with the formal courtesy due any female, Alphonse with hastily masked astonishment, and Jack with a collective wariness beneath their expressions of excessive delight. Jack and Alphonse were sizing up the company with the same cool and practiced eyes. Tory had lived among men long enough to know what sort of tribal testing and prodding and taking of each other’s mettle was about to commence. But at that moment, a pretty young woman, pale and slender with very black curly hair and light blue eyes, emerged from the wings, improbably garbed in a filmy Grecian tunic under a Scotch plaid shawl.
"Ah. Miss Owen!" cried Mrs. Fairweather. "Do come and meet Mrs. Lightfoot, a new member of our company. This is Miss Owen, who gives our romantic juveniles. Do be so good as to take Mrs. Lightfoot into the wardrobe and introduce her to the other ladies, there’s a dear girl. I’ll be along directly."
"What a surprise you are, Mrs. Lightfoot. We thought all the places in our company were quite full up."
"I don’t believe I’m here to replace anyone, Miss Owen. I am only engaged to . . . help out."
"Oh, you’re for utility, then?" Miss Owen looked so relieved that Tory nodded.
Miss Owen led her into the cramped backstage area, around one or two open trapdoors in the floor, past a maze of ropes and pulleys and wires and winches attached to the scenery and the catwalks above and finally down a passage to the wardrobe. They passed racks of gaudy clothing — military uniforms, Roman togas, Napoleonic cloaks and cocked hats, some formal evening wear from the 18th Century, Elizabethan doublets, monks’ robes and Scottish tartans. Beyond these were the shoes, hats and wigs, leading into a dressing area with a long shelf built into the wall beneath two or three large candle-lit mirrors.
Two women were primping at one of the mirrors, their backs to Tory. One had dark hair and wore a simple morning dress patterned in subdued tones of beige and navy. But her companion was rigged out like Marie Antoinette, in an 18th Century satin ball gown of robin’s egg blue that shimmered in the candlelight and rustled like a breeze in a full press of sail. Snowy lace cascaded from her tight elbow-length sleeves and a row of tiny silver bows marched down the back of the fitted bodice that emphasized a long, slender figure. Acres of satiny skirt billowed out below her narrow waist, falling into a gracefully scalloped hem trimmed with more silver bows and white rosettes above creamy eyelet lace. A tall, upswept powdered wig perched on her head, from which a single white sausage curl dripped down the elegant nape of her neck.
"Oh, there you are, Owen," cried the darker woman, glancing over her shoulder. She looked older than Miss Owen, perhaps thirty, and one of her eyes seemed darker than the other, but both were animated with mischief. "I wondered where you’d got to. I thought you were going to miss all the fun."
"There isn’t going to be any," Miss Owen pouted. "I've just — "
"But we’re almost done! Come have a look."
She nudged her friend in blue, who gave her wig a final pat, straightened up and turned around. She was taller than the dark woman, and younger and as fair as milk. And even with the lights behind her, Tory could see she was a breathtaking beauty, with wide, smoky dark blue eyes in a delicately boned face and a small, round, perfectly heart-shaped mouth. She inclined her head slightly forward, lowered those unsettling eyes and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy before Miss Owen, who was gaping in awe.
"I am so very charmed to know you," murmured the vision in blue; even her voice was soft and alluring. It was not until she rose again and fully opened her eyes that she noticed Tory standing in the shadows. Her gorgeous mouth quirked into a frown.
"What in the bloody blue hell is this?" This time, the voice came out a clear, ringing baritone, unmistakably male.
Then the older woman saw Tory too, and looked amused.
"I do believe it’s a 'who,' dear," she told her friend.
Tory saw they expected her to be shocked, if not by the beautiful man in the gown, then by his language. But she could only smile at the first expression of honest feeling she had heard in a quarter of an hour.
"I’ve been trying to tell you," Miss Owen chimed in. "Their majesties have arrived and they’ve brought a new player. Mrs. Lightfoot, meet Mrs. Kennett and Mr. Bell."
"I’m delighted beyond all rational thought to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Lightfoot," muttered young Mr. Bell.
"I rejoice to hear it, Mr. Bell."
"That’s right, dear, don’t mind Kit," smiled Mrs. Kennett, her mismatched eyes, one brown, one green, amused, if not warm. "He’s only in a temper because we mice had thought to have an extra day to play and here are the cats come home already. So you’ve joined our merry band, have you?"
"Yes, I’m afraid it’s rather unexpected."
"Indeed. Well, what’s your line of business, then?"
Tory hesitated, and Mr. Bell smirked at Mrs. Kennett over her ignorance.
"She means characters, dearie," Mr. Bell explained to her. "What parts can you give?"
Tory had never given any part in its entirety, only snippets of characters in the scenes of tumbling, pantomime, tragedy and farce they had cobbled together for market days in the islands.
"I do Columbina," she told them. "And Lady Macbeth."
"Columbina and Lady Macbeth!" Mrs. Kennett burst out, with a bawdy cackle. "There’s utility for you!"
"What a very prodigy you must be," said Mr. Bell.
Tory knew they were making sport of her and that they meant her to know it. But she was not so easily daunted.
"You must be the judge of that, Mr. Bell. I am engaged for Viola."
"Light comedy and breeches parts into the bargain," mused Mr. Bell. "Such versatility shall put us all to shame." He said this with such a natural rustle of his skirts and a pretty tilt to his head that Tory could not help smiling again.
"Perhaps you ought to play Viola, Mr. Bell."
"I would give an excellent account of Viola," he agreed. "Although, I fear Cesario would show me off to far less advantage. But I shall never have the opportunity to shine in either role, since I had the ill fortune to be born into this tiresome century and not in Shakespeare's time, when impudent women were kept off the stage and confined to the domestic sphere, where they belong."
This was said mostly as a goad to Mrs. Kennett.
"You can’t mean the bedroom," that lady purred.
"Lord God, whatever for? I was thinking of the kitchen."
"Well, you ought to be glad there are some men who enjoy bedding women, Mr. Bell, or no new males would ever be produced."
"How you wound me, Mrs. Kennett," rejoined Mr. Bell in a voice of utter boredom as he gazed at his fingernails. "Whatever shall our dear little Miss . . . Mrs . . . "
"Lightfoot," said Tory.
"Just so. What must you think of us, my dear?"
Tory thought she was watching a pair of veteran players who could not resist a performance, even to an impromptu audience of one. Even poor little Miss Owen seemed to have been left behind by the others’ practiced repartee.
"I think how fortunate we are to find ourselves in such lively company," Tory replied, with a diplomatic smile.
"We?" echoed Mrs. Kennett.
"My . . . brother and our friend, Mr. Belair, are also engaged."
"Owen, you goose! Why didn’t you tell us there were men on the premises," cried Mrs. Kennett. Lobbing a saucy glance at Mr. Bell, she added, "What a shame you aren’t dressed for the occasion."
"What, this old rag? It’s off in a trice!" responded Mr. Bell, who had already pulled off his wig, spilling forth a quantity of his own pale blonde hair the color of champagne; it curled about untidily beneath his ears and made him look suddenly very young. He unhooked the voluminous skirt at the waist — it must have been all of a piece with the petticoats underneath — and stepped out of it without a blush of modesty, clad in only a pair of knee-length white cotton drawers beneath the dazzling blue bodice. Miss Owen turned so crimson, Tory wondered if she were one of those females for whom the contents of a man’s nether garments were a surprise.
"Hurry, before the Angel Gabriel spirits them away!" cried Mr. Bell. He snatched a long dressing gown off a hook, wrapped himself up to the throat and raced out, barefoot, with Mrs, Kennett at his heels, past the racks of dresses and out of the wardrobe. Tory followed with Miss Owen, who was badly scandalized and struggling mightily to pretend that she was not.
Jack and Alphonse were with Mr. Fairweather and a long-faced gentleman player whose name Tory could not recall, with Mrs. Kennett and Mr. Bell hovering nearby, hoping to be presented. Mrs. Fairweather was in conference with a stout, grey-haired matron who had a fair little girl in tow, and Tory was beckoned over to meet Mrs. Fairweather’s daughter, Eliza, and her aunt, Mrs. Harriet Greville, who begged to be addressed as Aunt Hat.
"Well, my dear," Mrs. Fairweather smiled, "our Mr. Gabriel has kindly offered to share his lodgings with your brother and Mr. Belair."
"Now we’ve only to find a snug place for you, my dear," Aunt Hat told her. “But I’m afraid our ladies are already quite cramped at the milliners . . . "
"And you would find our household far too chaotic, with this little hooligan about," added Mrs. Fairweather, gazing fondly at her daughter. "But we shall have you in, of course, and gladly, if no other arrangements can be found."
"But Jenny and I have more room than we need at the pastry-cooks,'" Miss Owen spoke up. "There’s a day-bed under the window. Did she not tell you?"
Tory did not have to wonder who Jenny was, from the way Mrs. Kennett glared at Miss Owen. But the girl was looking very pleased with herself, especially when Mrs. Fairweather brightened and squeezed her arm.
"Why, but my dear, that is the very thing! Come, Mrs. Lightfoot, we’ll get you there straightaway, you must be pining to refresh yourself, poor thing . . ."
And Tory was borne off with the ladies with no more than a glance of farewell for Jack.
“Indeed,” Aunt Hat confided, as they ushered her out the door. “You and your brother turning up out of the blue like this is quite providential, considering our dilemma."
“Dilemma?”echoed Tory.
“Mr. Harding, our usual Sebastian. He’s gone missing.”
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