ACT II: PANTALONE /Chapter 15

 

CHAPTER 15: Gagging

 

The final frantic week of "Holiday Sensations" were made up of benefit performances and those bespoken by patrons who had seen the Fairweather Company at the Seelys' home in Bath. Scheduled for every other evening, they were tirelessly promoted in the coaching inns and chop houses of Kelsingham, in a last desperate hope of pumping new custom into the playhouse and new monies into its coffers.
   
Tory could scarcely keep track of who she was in the jumble of subordinate parts she played in the others' bens—second gentlewoman, lusty shepherdess, Lady Guildershot, wraith. Jack was tried out in so many second leads, she never knew whom she might be falling into bed with at the end of an exhausting evening — not that they had much energy left for each other. Fairweather was even kind enough to give them a ben of their own, a repeat of Twelfth Night — staged on that festive night itself, the conclusion of the holiday season — to capitalize on the notoriety that had sprung up around them since they had last performed it.

"You must make an apology from the stage and introduce Mrs. Lightfoot to 'em as your wife straight off, to prevent 'em shouting you down, later," Mr. Fairweather advised Jack. "But once you've observed the formality, the public will be satisfied."

But Jack knew it was not the public's forgiveness he should be seeking. Richard Gabriel had not spoken one syllable to him offstage since the night of his ben, and every time their eyes met, Jack was ashamed of himself all over again. It was a lot to ask of Gabriel to repeat his splendid Malvolio for the benefit of players he might now consider his enemies. On the morning of their ben, the company was blocking out the pieces, and when everyone dispersed for a ten-minute break, Jack followed Gabriel into a deserted corner backstage to apologize.

"I hope you know how sorry I am that we caused you any discomfort," Jack concluded.

"Don't worry. I shan't sabotage your ben," said Gabriel frostily.

"I would never suggest such a thing," said Jack, surprised. "You're far too professional. A commodity in short enough supply in our line of work."

Richard continued to gaze at him.

"Had I thought there was the smallest chance of you coming back early and finding us there . . . " Jack began again. "Well, I don't blame you for being outraged. We were careless and stupid, but please believe there was no malice aforethought." Shaking his head ruefully, he added, "There was no thought involved at all, fore or aft."

"Evidently not," murmured Gabriel.

Trot passed nearby, calling the players back onstage.

"Anyway, I'm sorry for shouting at you," Jack finished, when the call-boy had moved off. "That was inexcusable."

"I suppose I should never have spoken that way to your wife," Richard allowed, at length. "Had I only known."

Fair enough, thought Jack. "Well, there's plenty of blame to go around," he agreed.
 

The public were forgiving that night, perhaps in an excess of holiday spirit, Jack thought. But while Fairweather had been counting on the spectacle of his players begging the public's pardon to boost his profits, it was a very cold January and the house was no more than half full.



Malvolio's exit line was still ringing in his ears—I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you! — as Richard Gabriel finished tying his cravat and took his jacket from its hook in the dressing room. He'd lagged behind, changing out of his stage dress and into his street clothing with more than particular care, not, as he told himself, because he feared a repetition of Twelfth Night would make fresh in everyone's mind the consequences of the last time they had performed it — and his own part in that absurd after-piece. No, he was merely paying extra attention to the rituals of a play night, as any superstitious actor might; Malvolio was one of his signature roles, and he could ill afford that Twelfth Night should become an unlucky play for him.

And so he had lingered about his labors until the other gentleman players had taken themselves off. Jack had complimented him on his playing, an opinion echoed instantly by Plumleigh, and by Christopher Bell, before he and Jack went out together to meet their lady friends. It was a matter of some concern to Richard that the two of them had become so friendly; he wondered what sorts of tales were passing between them.

But the fact was, no tales about the last Twelfth Night incident painting Richard as the butt of a joke had been spread about the Green Room. Oh, they talked of nothing else for a few days, but it was always the scandal of Jack and his wife masquerading as siblings all this time, until they could bear it no more. When Richard heard himself mentioned, it was always in terms of: "Oh, poor Mr. Gabriel — imagine the shock!" True, it was something of a blow to his dignity to be referred to in those terms, but his dignity would recover. It was better than being made a object of outright ridicule, like poor old Malvolio.

He was just passing from the dressing room through the darkened wardrobe on his way out to the backstage when he heard the low, insinuating voice of Henry Harding nearby. Richard froze behind a voluminous cape on the rack and saw Harding and Plumleigh strolling past the outer wardrobe door.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall, that night! And not just for the obvious reason," Harding was saying, with a salacious dig in Plumleigh's ribs. "Imagine that old sourpuss Gabriel finding them there in such delicious disarray!"

"Now, Hen, who among us knows how we might have behaved?" came Plumleigh's easy response.

"But especially Gabriel. Just imagine his face! Naked womanflesh, right there in his own rooms? Well, we all know what he is —"

"Why, Mrs. Lightfoot!" Plumleigh interrupted, and Richard saw a female figure emerge into the backstage area from the other direction. She greeted them, and was passing by when Harding was emboldened to speak again.

"But, we were just speaking of you! I'll wager you have a tale to tell about that night in old Gabriel's rooms, eh?"

Richard tensed in the shadows.   

"Why, Mr. Harding, I should be happy to share all the details with you," she said, and Richard's spirits sank further still.

"If it was any of your damned business," Mrs. Lightfoot concluded sweetly. "Good evening, Mr. Plumleigh." She nodded and went on her way.

"B'God, Hen, she has you there!" Plumleigh laughed.

Harding's voice had gone flat. "Well, come along now, Plum," he grumbled, as they moved off. 



Their final performance of the Kelsingham season was a benefit for Christopher Bell. At Fairweather's urging, Kit chose to reprise his Romeo for the main piece, and the manager lost no time putting Jack in for Mercutio, which relegated Harding to his usual role of Tybalt.  Jack supposed Mr. Fairweather sought not only to reclaim some credibility for the company's production of the play after the previous fiasco, but to trade on the notoriety of that previous performance to draw the curious. And indeed, the house was three-quarters full, although Jack did not delude himself that it was anything other than Kit's popularity that made the performance a success.

They were standing outside the playhouse together afterwards, waiting to escort the ladies across to the Blue Fox, and Jack was trying to stand off a bit while Kit accepted the compliments of his admirers. He was attentive to each in turn, be they gentleman, matron, or owl-eyed young female, tipping his hat and kissing the occasional gloved hand, all with perfect composure. Only for a fleeting moment, as Jack angled about to elude an icy gust of wind, did he think he saw a trace of something more eager, hopeful, cross Kit's face in the light from the street lamp. Glancing about, Jack saw a lone gentleman just coming down the playhouse steps, burly and square-built, with a broken nose under a topper perhaps a fraction taller than was absolutely reasonable, in clothing that looked vaguely flash, although expensively made.

The fellow paused at the edge of the walkway as the last of Kit's admirers were melting away, and for a pregnant instant, it looked as if the stranger's narrow gaze might pass right over the young actor. And Jack saw an almost imperceptible alteration in the lad's features, as if that split-second of eagerness had never been there, replaced by a gallant and formal impassivity. Only someone who had performed onstage with Kit, trading cues, would have noticed it, the smooth and subtle imposition of acting.

Then, at the last moment, the burly fellow decided to turn his face slightly in Kit's direction. "Mr. Bell," he said. "Excellent playing, sir."

"Thank you, sir," Kit said smoothly. No one said anything for another beat, until Kit turned to Jack. "Oh, Mr. Dance, may I present Mr. McCutcheon."

Jack leaned into the light and felt his extended hand briefly engulfed in the other fellow's thick paw.

"You was in the play too," said McCutcheon. "Capital fighting."

Jack nodded. "Thank you." Backing away, he said to Kit, "I'll just go see what's keeping . . . "

But McCutcheon was already taking his leave. "Just wanted to pay my respects, like," he said to Kit, before striding off down the road. Kit's face remained impassive, as Jack tried to recall where he'd heard that name before; from long ago, a name from his youth.  But it wasn't until Jack noticed Henry Harding skulk furtively out of the playhouse and dash off down the road in the other direction, followed — at last! — by the emergence of Tory and Jenny, that it came to him. Joe McCutcheon. The Bristol Mauler.

It took at least another week for the company to dismantle their sets, pack up their scenery and properties and costumes, and settle up their various accounts around the town before they were ready to move on. But by mid-January, the Fairweather troupe found itself thrown upon the mercy of a Somerset winter.


 

Mr. Fairweather had secured a lease on a playhouse in the commercial town of Thornhampton for March. In the meantime, the company had to try its fortune in whatever town halls or assembly rooms it could command along the way. The Fairweathers drove ahead in their caravan to secure the hall. Those players who had had successful bens followed by coach; the others found their own way, often stopping to sing or dance or recite, or play snippets of a farce in taverns in exchange for meals or transport. Kit and Jenny called this "gagging," and as Tory and Jack were no strangers to wayfaring, the four of them traversed half the county together in this manner.

In Sheperton Cross, a crossroads village surrounded by sheep pastures, the Fairweather company played a week in an empty warehouse smelling strongly of sour curds for audiences who paid them mostly in cheese and cider. Farther south, in the ancient market town of Albansberrow, the company played another fortnight in a medieval Town Hall. There were profits to be made when the town filled up on market days, and in between, the players were glad enough to trade admissions for the warm woolen stockings manufactured in the town.

Tory lost track of all the various halls and drafty outbuildings the troupe  commandeered for a stage for a day or a week's time as their progress continued. But she was especially grateful for her woolen stockings on a chilly morning when she and Jack and Jenny and Kit found places in an open wagon carrying cider barrels. Traveling through a landscape of distant frosted hills and deserted sheep downs, they passed a silent circle of small, ancient grey stones. Most stood upright, although two or three had toppled over into the embrace of the earth over time.

"The Devil’s Dancers," Jack explained to Tory. "I remember passing this place often as a boy. The legend says they were dancers turned to stone by the Devil’s music while celebrating a wedding."

"Serves ’em right," Jenny chimed in.



 

"Are you married, Captain?"

A trace of something that might have been surprise passed across the face of the young man sitting across the desk from Charles Crowder, but he was too well-bred to show it.

"I have not had that honor, sir," the younger man replied. "Rather, say I am wedded to my profession at the moment."

"I am pleased to hear it." Crowder peered again at the papers on his desk. Usually he left the business of chartering ships for his cargoes destined for American markets to his agent here in Bristol. But as he was already in town on that other,  private matter, awaiting the arrival of his solicitor, he thought he'd see to it himself.

"My agent has had good report of you. Never lost a cargo in the transatlantic trade, in spite of your youth?"

The young captain gave a modest nod. "I've been sailing since I was a boy."

Not so long ago, Crowder thought to himself, sizing up the fellow again: fair hair, decently clubbed, blue eyes, ruddy complexion, and surprisingly well-tailored and deferential for a Yankee. "Your company is well known to me, of course."

"We have offices from Liverpool to the Indies," said the young captain, "and I've sailed to all of 'em."

"The Indies? As far as that?"

"I know the Indies well." The captain smiled.

That was the way of it with youth, thought Crowder, always racketing off to places like the Indies instead of attending to business at home. Still, the fellow came highly recommended for his skill as well as his speed. Crowder consulted his papers again. "Your ship, the Hotspur, is it?" He frowned briefly over the reckless-sounding name. "She is in sound condition?"

The captain's smile lost only a fraction of it luminescence. "Perfectly sound, sir. Although, well, I must confess we had a rough crossing and injured a spar or two. I shouldn't mention it at all, but the insurer may see the opportunity to inflate the premium over it, and as consignee, you would be liable . . . "

Crowder's eyes narrowed.

"I assure you, the cargo — all of it — arrived undamaged and two days early," the captain added.

"Then, is it not the responsibility of the previous consignee to pay for repairs?"

"Indeed it is, sir. And his office here in Bristol has written to him for confirmation."

"Captain, the spring season is soon upon us. My shipment must be in New York within the fortnight. What would it cost to see your ship in trim?"

"Why — Mr. Crowder, you are most generous." The captain named a sum, and Crowder scratched a few calculations on his papers. "The new spars have been ordered; the Hotspur can be ready to sail by Friday."

"Excellent," said Crowder. The captain was known for his speed, after all, and Crowder despised wasted time.

"I will pay you back with interest on the return voyage, of course," the captain added.

"Of course," Crowder agreed, and pushed back his chair. "And now, Captain, I have claimed enough of your valuable time."

"Your servant, sir. It has been my pleasure," his guest replied correctly as they both rose to take leave of each other. "And may I say, I look forward to a long and fortunate association."

"I trust it shall be, Captain Forrester," said Charles Crowder.

Top: Pantalone 1550 by Maurice Sand. 1860

Above Right: Malvolio. The Plays of William Shakespeare. Illustrated by H. C. Selous. ca 1864

Above Center: Actors travelling in search of fame. Engraving by Theodore Lane, 1825