CHAPTER 17: A Nominal Leader

In Thornhampton, a prosperous trading center known for cider-brewing and the manufacture of all sorts of woolen goods, the company was able to set up in a proper theatre again. True, it was a converted brewhouse, but it boasted boxes, pit, gallery, Green Room and all the appropriate stage machinery. There was a printer nearby in the High Street for the bills and plenty of custom from the traffic on the river Thorne that wound out of town for the Bristol Channel.

But several weeks on the road had not agreed with Charlotte Fairweather. The season at the Brewhouse Theatre was scarcely under way before Mr. Fairweather began to reassign his parts to the other gentlemen players to spend more time with his ailing wife. He relied most often upon Jack, whose encyclopedic knowledge of Shakespearean verse fit him for so many of Mr. Fairweather’s roles.


Jack had spent the morning at the Brewhouse, helping Mr. Ingram block out the stage business for the next evening's farce. He met Tory for dinner at the Old Harry tavern in the next street, but upon their return, they found the inn where the Fairweathers were staying all in an uproar. Charlotte Fairweather was several hours  into her labor and having no easy time of it. Aunt Hat had all the household women assisting the midwife, and Miles Fairweather had been shut out of the sickroom to fret in the back parlor.
    
It’s never been easy on her, this life, poor woman," he confessed, when Jack found him there. "She’s a young woman, still, for all the time we’ve been together and for all the cares I’ve heaped upon her."

"She has a very strong character," Jack tried to reassure him.

"Oh, aye, sir. Regular heart of oak, hasn’t she? Took me on and my poor motherless Stephen after I lost my first wife, the Dear Lord keep her, and has presented me with my little Eliza into the bargain, since. And never a word of complaint, never a word."

Jack couldn't think how to comfort him, confronted with the situation he himself had always feared above all others: that Tory might one day be brought to a childbed she might not survive. That he would lose her.

"The women will do all they can for her," was all he could think of to say.

Tory had scarcely shrugged out of her plaid cloak, but she left it for Jack to carry upstairs when she saw a harried chambermaid hauling a pan of soiled water out of the lying-in room. Tory would have sooner swum into the jaws of a shark than face another scene of childbirth, but an extra pair of hands was always useful in an emergency, and she made her way inside.

It was nearly twelve hours later when she finally emerged again, into the gloomy dark of the corridor. Stewed in her own sweat, every muscle cramped with fatigue and anxiety, she scarcely felt the carpet beneath her feet nor saw in what direction she stumbled. Her right hand still smarted from where poor Charlotte had twisted it in her own, digging her nails into Tory’s flesh in the agony of her ceaseless pushing, her screams thundering still in Tory’s brain. Screaming and blood, a scene she remembered all too vividly, could never, ever forget. By all the gods, the child was finally born and the mother survived. But Tory could not help but remember the mother who had not.

She got as far as the back parlor, dimly aware of other, more robust females hailing Miles Fairweather and ushering him past her into his wife, at last. Then the last of Tory’s strength evaporated. She sank, exhausted, onto a low banquette by a narrow window, shuddering as if she herself had endured the trauma of birth. It was not yet grey dawn outside and by the low candlelight, she could see her own image in the glass, her dark hair unkempt, her eyes hollow. Like her mother’s face, the last time she had ever seen her. Then the face in the glass crumbled.    

She felt the steady hand resting between her shoulders before she could bear to acknowledge it. When Jack lifted her shoulders and drew her into his embrace, she could not resist. He never told her to hush, never promised that everything would be all right, only held her and rocked her, giving her his strength when she had none left of her own.

"I . . . I’m sorry," she said at last.

"You were thinking of your mother," he whispered.

Tory nodded. "It was like that night. . . . ” Her breath came in a sudden spasm. "I lost her. I lost all of them."

"Oh, mi vida, mi corazon," Jack murmured, folding her close again. "You’ll never lose me, Rusty. I promised you once I would never, ever leave you and I never will. I’ll do my damnedest to make a life for us, here, I swear it."

Once the season at the Brewhouse Theatre resumed, Mr. Fairweather was so preoccupied with the slow recuperation of his wife and the demands of tiny Mary Sarah Fairweather, he scarcely had time to manage the company. He so often asked Jack if he would mind popping round to the printer’s to pick up the bills, or meet with some local organization to arrange a charity benefit, that Jack got into the habit of stopping in every morning on his way to the theatre to assist in the day’s business, glad to do whatever small favors he could to help the manager in his present difficulties.

He was more hungry to succeed now than he had ever been as a lad of nineteen. Since returning to England, he was almost tempted to believe Tory’s mystical notion that his foster parents were watching over him, somehow, and he wanted to succeed for their sake, to honor their memory. But above all, he yearned to provide security for Tory. He could never restore the freedom she’d had to leave behind in the islands, but he was determined to give her a life of some stability in this gypsy trade to make up for everything else she had lost.

He was chewing over these thoughts while shrugging back into his street clothes in the Green Room late one night. Their performance had been a benefit for the Thorneside Widows and Orphans Fund and he had sent Alphonse into the box office after the interlude to keep an eye on the receipts until they could be delivered to Mr. Fairweather for the reckoning. Alphonse had returned to the company shortly after Mrs. Fairweather's lying-in, with little to say on the subject of his Bristol adventure. Not that Jack had had a spare moment to converse with him in any case, in the pandemonium of these last couple of weeks.

The other players were still loitering about the Green Room in stages of disarray when Fairweather himself strode in amongst them.

"Excellent playing tonight, one and all," he hailed them. "Which makes my announcement all the more distressing." The room quieted on the instant and Fairweather, looking forlorn but nothing daunted, pressed on. "Mrs. Fairweather is in a lagging state. She lags behind in her recovery, she lags below expectation in the, er, how may I say it delicately? In the nourishment she must provide for the infant. In order to regain her health and vigor, she, that is, we must . . . well, the plain, bald fact of it is, ladies and gentlemen, we must leave the profession."

But for a startled cry from Flora Bishop like the piping of a small finch, this declaration was greeted with appalled silence.

"Even though the spring thaw is at last under way, it has been a cold winter and Mrs. F. craves heat and warmth. Some of her Greville cousins have made a home for themselves in Italy, where there is sunshine and inexpensive lodgings to be had. A great many English have removed themselves to Italy for their health, and very soon the Miles Fairweather family must number itself among them."

"How soon?" asked Jenny Kennett.

"There is a packet boat sailing up the Thorne for Bristol Channel in a week."

His audience found their tongues at last.

"A week!" "As soon as that?" "We’re to close without bens?" "But we’ve performances bespoken a fortnight from now!" "Aye, and into next month!"

But Jack remained silent. So this was his reward for daring to hope for a future, to be tossed aside in a week to begin all over again. Was this why he had brought Tory here? Was this why Alphonse had returned from his refuge in Bristol? Plumleigh, Gabriel, Mrs. Swan, they were popular in the provinces and would find new places soon enough. Any company would be glad to have Kit Bell. Jenny was not the most accomplished actress, but she knew her lines and her marks and was a lively presence onstage. But places in quality companies were scarce. If they were all to be turned out . . .

"Please do not imagine I am insensible to your plight," Miles Fairweather went on miserably. "I have had these same arguments with myself, but to no avail. The well-being of my poor wife must come first. If there were any other way —"

"No one could begrudge your concern for your dear lady," Kit spoke up. "Which, of course, you know we all share. But might it not be possible for the company to continue on without you?" There were a few tentative murmurings. Kit went on, "Of course, you and Mrs. Fairweather are irreplaceable upon the stage and in the hearts of your public. But in the circumstances —"

"Is the lease on the playhouse up to date?" Alphonse had come in, holding the box.

"It continues until mid-April, as long as the rent is paid every Saturday night," Fairweather replied.

"Then why can we not continue on until then?" Kit proposed. "At least fulfill our obligations in Thornhampton?"

"A sharing republic!" cried George Plumleigh. "Like my early strolling days. What jolly fun!"

"You have my blessing in such an enterprise, by all means," said Mr. Fairweather. "Only . . . why, a company of this size must have at least a nominal leader, to see to the timetables and suchlike."

"If we attempt to operate as a collective, we shall be at each others’ throats within the week," Jenny agreed. "We must name one person to manage us."

From a corner of his eye, Jack saw Harding conferring eagerly with his friend, Plumleigh. And because the fellow had so little skill in keeping his thoughts out of his face, Jack wondered if Harding might try to put himself forward for the position, and what a disaster that would be —

"In that case," came Richard Gabriel's voice, "I suggest Mr. Dance."

Sitting barefoot with one stocking still in his hand, Jack could only stare at him in utter horror.

"He is relatively new to our company, but he has ever behaved with utmost professionalism." Gabriel spoke the last word with precision, and a very slight nod to Jack.

"But have you any experience managing a troupe of players, Mr. Dance?" spoke up Mrs. Swan.

"He’s been all but managing ours ever since the child was born," Kit pointed out. "Is it not so, Mr. Fairweather?"

"Quite so. Mr. Dance has helped me quite admirably."

"But . . . I’ve been scarcely more than an assistant, a call-boy — meaning no disrespect, Trot," Jack injected. "Surely, one of the more senior players . . . Mr. Plumleigh?"

"Ye gads, man! Bills, account-books, hiring and firing, upkeep, publicity, these are not my concern," Plumleigh protested. "I am a player."

"We are all of us players, Plum," sniffed Harding.

"The fact is, nobody else cares to take on the headaches of management," Kit said, turning again to Jack.

"And I do?" Jack gaped.

"But you already know every part ever written. You’ll have more free time than the rest of us."

"Any other person in this room is more qualified than I am," said Jack. "Can we not open the discussion to other candidates?"

It looked again like Harding might put himself forward, and now Jack almost hoped he would. He could read the frown of concentration as Harding weighed his probable work load against the prestige of an actor-manager. But prestige lost out and Harding was as silent as the rest.

"There are no other candidates," said Kit. "Mr. Dance, we throw ourselves upon your mercy."

"Do say yes, Mr. Dance," Violet Owen piped up. "Or we shall all be out on the street."

Jack glanced over at Tory, whose dark eyes were shining at him, full of mischief. And something else. Pride? He could not allow her to starve if it was at all within his power to prevent it.

"I shall not . . .  abandon you, of course," he told them. "I’ll have a go at the job until our lease runs out —"

"Hear, hear!" enthused Plumleigh.
 
" — at which point you are more than welcome to vote me down. But under one condition. Since I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m doing, I shall need a partner. With your approval."

"Is it someone we know?" frowned Mrs. Swan.

"Quite well. It’s Mr. Belair."

Alphonse’s expression remained as cool as ever, but he nodded very slightly at Jack to signal his agreement. Odd, it was Tory who looked suddenly taken aback, but when Jack’s eyes swung back to her again, she was smiling.

"Mr. Belair is the very devil with finances," Jack explained. "I can scarcely manage the company’s interests without him to keep the treasury in order."

"I second the proposition," cried Plumleigh.

"And I," echoed Gabriel.

"Then we’re all agreed." Kit smiled.

Tory tried to hide her hurt that Jack named Alphonse as his partner and not her. She and Jack had fought side by side in the pirate trade, risked their lives together in the slave islands. But they were in civilized England, now, where men ran things and women were useless subordinates — even in the theatrical trade, which was far more broad-minded than most. Of course, Alphonse would make an excellent treasurer, she could not begrudge him that. And it was a great honor for Jack. She would not tarnish his triumph with her disappointment.

But it was not an especially triumphant Jack who crawled into their little bed that night upstairs at the Tudor Inn.

"I must be out of my mind, Rusty," he fretted. "I can’t manage a company."

"Of course you can, hombre."

"I’ve been off the circuits for ten years, and only two steps away from the hangman’s noose, besides. What will they do if their fine new manager is clapped in irons one day for a pirate?"

Tory repressed a shiver. It was the thing she feared most in the world, that Jack might yet be taken away from her. Her sex had always been her own best defense against any charge of piracy. But if evidence ever surfaced connecting Jack to the trade . . . well, piracy was a hanging offense. They could never regret their time in the trade; Tory had found freedom, Jack had reawakened to life. They had found each other. But those were dangerous ghosts to carry into the civilized world.

"That was another lifetime," Tory said now, to reassure herself. "Play a part and the part is what people will see, remember?"    
    
"But I’ve never played manager before," Jack sighed. "What was Richard thinking?"
    
That you're the best man for the job?" Tory suggested. "Despite all that hellfire and brimstone, Mr. Gabriel is very smart about the theater. These people need you, Jack. They have nowhere else to turn."

"They deserve better," Jack frowned. "I’ve never been much good to people who needed me."

"You’ve done me a great deal of good," she told him, propping her head up on her hand. "You taught me to tumble, to juggle, even to act, after a fashion. I could never have survived for this long blundering about on my own. You’ve had an excellent education in this trade, Jack, and these people respect you for it. You won’t disappoint them." She leaned over and kissed him softly. "You have never disappointed me."

"Not even now?"

For a thrilling instant, Tory thought he was addressing her exclusion from his partnership, then she realized that the "now" he referred to was here, in England.

"Especially now. In a few brief months I’ve gone from fugitive to wife of a theatrical manager."

"So it’s my prestige you love," Jack teased, stroking her hair.

"I respect your prestige,” she clarified, crawling astride him. "But I would rather make love to a pirate."

"So would I." He pulled her down onto his chest for another, longer kiss, arching his body under her slowly, but purposefully, until she broke off their kiss with a soft laugh.

"I see you’re about to do me a deal more good!”