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