"Charton-on-Crewe is the last official stop on our circuit," Kit Bell was explaining to Jack. "Due south along the coach road. The wool-spinning and sail-making industries can support a theatrical season of about a month."
"And after that?"
Kit shrugged. "Fairweather is a dear fellow," he observed, delicately tugging each cuff of his powder blue morning coat into place as he perched on the edge of the manager’s desk. "But a trifle whimsical in matters of organization. He placed considerable faith in the tempo of the moment, the intuition of his dear lady, and, of course, the continuing benevolence of Fortune."
"That arrant whore." Jack sighed.
Kit nodded. "At the end of our winter season, he might secure us a couple of weeks at Yeovil during the spring livestock market or find us an unoccupied hall in some other crossroads town. But most often, we troop like gypsies to whatever spa towns do not already have a company of players in residence. A dwindling number, as it happens. Playhouses in the provinces are leased far in advance for the summer."
"Because the London patent houses close down." Jack nodded; that was when all the professionals hied themselves off to provincial engagements.
"Exactly," said Kit. "But Fairweather preferred to keep his engagements open-ended. By the time he was ready to move on, the next likely places were already booked up."
"So there is no Fairweather summer circuit?" Jack frowned.
"On one or two fortunate occasions, he found us four or six weeks in a theatre whose prior lease had been voided. His usual centerpiece was a month of ‘sensations’ at Kelsingham in high summer, leaving the serious drama to the patent houses in Bath and Bristol."
Alphonse looked up from his account books on the opposite side of the broad desk from Jack. His eloquent shrug told Jack all he needed to know about Alphonse's opinion of another season in Kelsingham so soon.
"Surely, they've seen all of our tricks in Kelsingham," said Jack. "Such as they are." He shook his head. "I can’t believe it was sheer short-sightedness that kept Fairweather from obtaining his own summer playhouse."
"Indeed, it was not," said Kit, with a nod to Alphonse’s book. "As Mr. Belair can tell you. Even when he did manage to fill the house, Fairweather had a family to maintain. And he looked after his players. We were always paid, whether or not there were any profits. That’s why so many of us stayed with him."
Jack wondered if he would ever be able to command such loyalty. Not unless he, too, could somehow manage to pay his players regular wages out of nothing in the coffers, a chancy prospect from the way Alphonse was glowering over the books. Yet, he required more than loyalty; he needed to make a decent living, for all of them. Fairweather had generously left him all of the company’s props and painted scenery and all the dresses except those belonging to his own family. And the coach to transport them in, along with the horses, to be groomed and fed. The lease on the Brewhouse Theatre was good for four more weeks. The only missing ingredient was profit.
"Kit, I’d be obliged if you’d pop round to the Harry and the inn and round up our people. Say I’d like to see ‘em here at the theatre in an hour."
"Tendering your resignation so soon?" Kit grinned, sliding up off the desk. "And here I had five pounds riding on your sticking it out at least a fortnight."
“T'would serve you right if I did quit, since this was your crack-brained idea in the first place."
"It was Gabriel’s crack-brained idea," Kit corrected him. "I only won the case with my brilliant argument."
"Well, you’ll win your five pounds, in any event. Let’s hope it’s not the last profit anybody earns in this venture."
"What we need is a sensation or two to see us through the rest of the season here in Thornhampton," Jack declared, an hour later, to the company members draped across the pit benches in the Brewhouse Theatre. "Something unexpected. At Mr. Bell’s suggestion, I’d like to get up a production of Pizarro. Let me know what parts you can give so I can cast as soon as possible."
"Won’t Pizarro be expensive?" asked Mrs. Swan.
There was a tentative buzz of enthusiasm.
“I would appreciate any other suggestions," Jack prompted.
"What about an entirely new piece?" Harding called out. "Shakespeare and Sheridan were well enough in their day, but everyone turns out to see a novelty."
"Yes, every company gives those pieces," Violet chimed in. "But people like new things best."
From the end of her row, Tory swallowed a grin and glanced back to see how Jack would take this philistine outburst.
"I’m afraid we’ve no budget to spare for a playwright," he said diplomatically.
"But we have one in our midst, already," Jane Kennett declared. "Oh, come, you can’t all have forgotten the thrilling romance of Captain Lightfoot?"
She was suddenly beaming at Tory and everyone else was looking at her, too.
"What a piece that would make upon the stage," Jenny went on. "Fever, romance, pirates."
"Might draw a house or two at that, in a riverside town like Thornhampton," Plumleigh agreed.
"But that was only . . . " a lie, Tory wanted to say, " . . . a silly story."
"But that is the very definition of drama, my dear," said Plumleigh. "You’ve only to get it up into a piece."
"Yes, do!" cried Violet.
"But . . . I’ve never written anything," Tory protested.
"Oh, pooh." Jenny smiled, "I’ve seen you scribbling in that book of yours. That one you used to keep hidden away at the pastry-cook’s."
Tory’s expression froze. She dared not even look at Jack, for fear her own guilt would crackle over to him like a bolt of St. Elmo's fire. Jenny had seen her logbook! How many of their secrets did she know?
"Don’t be embarrassed, dear," Jenny reassured her. "We all have our private peccadilloes. Yours might be of some use, at the moment."
Tory knew she must say something before it occurred to the others to grow any more curious about her logbook.
"I shall . . . try to oblige," someone said, with a show of assumed confidence. Tory was horrified to realize it had been her.
Arriving early at the Brewhouse two mornings later, Jack was surprised when Mr. Ingram, the stage manager, told him a person was waiting for him. A vision of brass buttons and wrist manacles swam before his eyes; the urge to bolt, to grab Tory and flee for their lives, flooded his every sense, but he fought it down and charged upstairs to confront his fate.
Top: Vintage Summer Theatre poster
Above: Strolling Players, Reginald Birch 1897
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