CHAPTER 34: Cast Out

'The scenes of the Fairy Realm are like nothing ever seen before in Kelsingham.'"

Jenny paused to glance up, beaming, from the review of yesterday's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the Kelsingham Advertiser.

"You'll notice he does not say they ought ever to be seen again," noted Tom Ashbrook, buttering a corner of toast across the table from her in the morning room of the Blue Fox.

"He was too bedazzled," Jenny assured him, laying aside the paper to reach for her coffee. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The novelty alone will be enough to fill the house for another performance next week."

"And every performance counts," Tom agreed, popping the last of the toast into his mouth.

The town of Kelsingham had scarcely changed at all since the Fairweather Company had departed in January on its makeshift winter tour. But everything about the place felt entirely new to Jenny Kennett, now that she had Tom Ashbrook to share it with. For the sake of propriety, to say nothing of economy, she was back in her old lodgings over the pastry cook's, sharing the room with Flora Bishop, now the company ingenue, and Mrs. Swan. But every moment that she was not literally asleep, Jenny contrived to be at the theatre, seeing to the wardrobe, while Tom painted and assembled his scenes upstairs, or showing him around the town where he had never been. Not that there was all that much to show off, but every mundane shop and halfhearted scenic view was infused with magic and possibility with Tom on her arm.

This morning, as had become their custom, they were sitting by the window with a view of the Kelsingham Playhouse across the street. And as mellow and benevolent toward the world as Jenny was feeling these days, thanks to Tom, she could never quite forget that this modest little converted playhouse and whatever profit they might raise off it in the next three weeks was all that stood between all of them and the terror of the unknown.

Jack was half magician, they all believed it by now. For their first week of "Sensations" in Kelsingham, he had managed to produce a boisterous full-length pantomime, a production of Prospero and Ariel for the benefit of Mr. Belair's abolitionist group in Bristol, and the Dream with Tom's spectacular scenes. But once the company was booted out of the Playhouse at the end of October, unless some other engagements were conjured out of the air, how could they possibly stay together? And without the company and the support of their friends, Jenny didn't dare think what might become of herself. Or Tom.

A warm hand creeping gently over hers on the table drew Jenny back to the moment. "Don't worry, Jenny, it'll all come right," Tom promised her, with a flash of his easy smile. "You'll see."

She turned her hand palm up and squeezed his back, smiling in turn at the trace of sticky melted butter on his fingertips.

"Here, here, none of that," said someone, sotto voce, and Jenny glanced up, surprised that she hadn't noticed Kit come strolling into the room, brandishing his cane in one hand and the morning post in the other. "Save it for the stage, my dears," he added in mock reproof.

Tom half-stood, reaching for a third chair, but Kit waved him off. "No, I can't stay, as I'm sure you'll be crushed to hear. But I saw you two sitting here and I thought you might be interested in what I've just got at the post office."

Kit fanned his little handful of bills, notices and letters, selected one envelope, and handed it to Jenny. Her eyes rounded as she read it.

"It's a letter to Jack from Stephen Price," she said to Tom.

Kit's dark blue eyes glittered with intrigue at them both. "Manager of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane."


 

Jack was almost too nervous to open the letter, with Jenny, Tom and Kit all clamoring to know what was in it, and Tory and Alphonse crowding in on their heels. There was scarcely room to open a letter in his tiny office off the property room, with all the rest of them crammed into it, scarcely room to breathe.

"What can Stephen Price want with me?" Jack muttered, staring at the envelope. Had they violated some copyright exclusive to the patent theatres? He hoped there were no fines nor legal wrangling involved that they could ill afford. Did Price wish to hire away one of his players? Kit, most likely, Jack supposed; he always knew he could not keep the lad in the provinces forever, but then why not write directly to him?

"Perhaps we could find out if you open it," suggested Alphonse.

Jack did so, silently scanning through the page, increasingly perplexed.

"Well?" the others chorused, alarmed.

"Why . . . it's the damnedest thing," said Jack, blinking up at the others, so thunderstruck he'd forgotten they were there.

"What does he want?" Alphonse prompted him.

Jack frowned. "Me."

Out of all patience, Tory grabbed the letter out of Jack's hand and read aloud. "'James Wallack, acting manager for Stephen Price, Drury Lane . . . so and so and so . . . Mr. Dance, I am pleased to offer you a part in our new production . . . First Part of King Henry IV . . . upcoming on the 9, 12, and 16 of October . . .'" She looked up, astonished.

"What part?"

"Prince Hal," Tory read.

"Hal?" exclaimed Kit. "B'God, young blades all over the city have been battling each other like Huns for the chance to audition for Hal! Some new fellow Price has brought out from America desires to make his London debut as Falstaff."

"Well I never auditioned," said Jack. "Anyway, Wallack is an actor too; isn't Hal his part?"

"It was, until the previous manager, Elliston, made such mincemeat out of Falstaff last year," said Kit. "No doubt he finds the part unlucky now."

Jack shook his head. "But this isn't the usual way things are done at all —"

Tory interrupted, reading further, "'We are prepared to offer you the sum of twenty guineas!'"

"For three night's work?" cried Kit. "My dears, it's Christmas in October!"

"But — there must be some mistake," faltered Jack.

By now, Alphonse had taken the letter. "I doubt if there is another Mr. Jack Dance, Proprietor, Fairweather Theatrical Company, Kelsingham," he said, reading the salutation.

"Of course there is no mistake," scoffed Jenny. "Some clever spy for Mr. Price has no doubt seen your work and wants to whisk you off to London before Covent Garden gets wind of you."

"And even if it is a mistake," chimed in Kit, "which I can scarcely believe, for only three nights' work, you can scarper off again with your pay before anyone is the wiser."

"But how can he promise me three nights in one part?" Jack protested. "It's up to the audiences to decide that. And besides, I can't leave now. We've three more weeks in Kelsingham. The Dream is bespoke again for Thursday next, and we've Pizarro and The Indies to —"

"This is a great deal of money." Alphonse glanced up from the letter to peer at Jack. "It could pay everyone's salary for a week."

That silenced Jack, Tory noted. Indeed, everyone paused for a collective breath of awe at the enormity of the proffered sum.

"Cut out the Athenians in the Dream, and put Kit on for Oberon," Jenny said to Jack. "Put Stephen Fairweather in a dark wig for Rolla. We can work around you for a few days. Tory can cut scenes or re-write them, can't you, dear?"

Tory had grown silent during these discussions. She could not be more thrilled for Jack, but watching his reaction, the desperate way he seemed to be trying to wriggle out of this incredible offer, she realized how conflicted he must feel about this engagement, the culmination of all his youthful dreams, yet the homecoming he dreaded above all things, after the fiasco of his first London debut as an untutored lad of nineteen. That was the sort of humiliation she supposed he had no wish to repeat. But his playing in the provinces had been superlative. She could never call herself a connoisseur of the theatre, but she'd had a great deal of opportunity to watch players in action over the past year, and Jack's easy manner onstage and his commanding presence — never forced or stilted, but completely inborn, as if he wasn't even aware of it — had made him a favorite with audiences. She had often noted from the wings how the house tended to relax when Jack came onstage, knowing that now they were in safe, sure hands. And the difference between Jack and, say, a fellow like Harding was beyond all reckoning.

But now, prompted by Jenny, Tory knew she must re-enter the conversation. She couldn't bear to upset Jack by encouraging him to go if he really couldn't face it, nor had she any desire to be separated from him, even for a few days. But she also knew this was the opportunity he'd been working toward all his life, since he was a boy, tumbling at the fairs and helping boothers to set up in exchange for admission to their shows. Was he less likely to forgive her for making him go, or for allowing him to let this one chance slip through his fingers?

They were all staring at her now, as if her opinion would decide the matter. Especially Jack, his expression now unreadable.

"Yes, of course I can," she agreed, blithely stepping off into the void. "We will miss you, but you must go," she said to Jack, trying to decipher the pliant look in his eyes. "You will be wonderful," she added softly.

"Yes, yes, you must go," the others all chimed in.

Jack held Tory's gaze for one more, long moment, then turned resolutely to the others. "Well . . .  if you are all so determined to cast me out —"

"It's only eight nights in London, and the coach ride," said Kit. "Scarcely more than a week."

"Or less." Jack sighed. ”Once the London audiences have their way with me."


 

There was a bitter chill in from Bristol Harbor tonight, yet another unpleasant reminder — as if Henry Harding needed any more  — of the coming change of seasons. He stared down at the remains of the grilled chop that had almost cost him his life; he'd scarcely had the stomach for it after his mad dash back from the seedy public house down the road, before Lenoir's bruiser on the corner spotted him. But a man must eat. Next time he'd have to send the landlord's idiot boy for his meal.

He pulled his coat closer — it was too drafty in the tiny room to have it off —and peeked out a corner of the grimy window to make sure he'd not been followed. Holed up on the outskirts of Bristol like a rat, he was, dodging Lenoir's thugs at every turn. It was Charles Crowder's fault he'd lost his employment and now it was too late to find another company for the season. He was a player of a certain stature; he could not be seen to take himself off to Mr. Sims at the Harp, in Town, cap in hand like a rube, a penitent, begging for a place in some provincial backwater.

Meanwhile, Harding fumed, here was Crowder paying most handsomely to put Dance on the boards in Old Drury itself. And it was Harding's own idea, that was the hell of it. Who else had explained how in thrall they all were to Dance, as if the fellow were some sort of mesmerist? But separate the head from the body of the company and see how swiftly they all come to ruin, Harding had told him. That infernal Negro dwarf, that arrogant molly-boy they all made such a pet of, a few prattling women, Crowder could have nothing to fear from them with Dance out of the way, and once they disbanded, that harlot wife of his would have no recourse but to return to him. Not to speak of Crowder's plans for Dance, once he was in the public eye in London.

Harding had even told them how to do it: an engagement in London, the one lure no actor can resist. And Crowder had seized upon the idea on the instant, invested a staggering amount of cash in the season at Old Drury with instructions to Stephen Price, the new manager from America, to hire Dance away for a major role. Prince Hal, of all the bloody cheek, exactly the sort of role Harding himself ought to be shining in — the rake who rises to kingly nobility. Price had a fellow out from America eager to give Falstaff, and after poor old Elliston had disgraced himself in the part just last year, the management was keen to purge the stain of it off its boards. And just like that, Crowder had bought Stephen Price himself and put him in his pocket, like a fairing at St. Bart's.

But where was all that ready blunt when Harding asked for a little something extra for his pains? Oh, yes, they were all pleased enough then to pay heed to his opinions, exploit his talents. But now that they'd all had what they wanted of him, now that he was stuck in this rathole without resources, cast out from their inner circle, they had no further use for him. Paid off like a common laborer, like a strumpet, and now in fear of his life after he tried and failed to compound that parsimonious stipend from Crowder into something useful at another, lesser gaming house, only to be spotted by one of Major Lenoir's toadies.

Never mind Crowder's larger plan; for now, he was paying for Dance's London debut. Why should Dance, of all people, reap the benefit of Crowder's fortune and not Harding? It ought to be Harding up there onstage at Drury Lane . . . and Harding froze where he stood beside the window, staring into the gathering dark, as the idea took shape, wraith-like, in his brain. B'God, perhaps it could be him. Jack Dance was unknown in London. Charles Crowder would be in Bristol.

And he found himself smiling in the darkness. They would all be sorry they'd ever crossed Henry Harding.  

Top: Oberon and Titania, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Francis Danby, 1837

Above: James William Wallace of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,  by Thomas Woolnoth, after  Thomas Charles Wageman, 1818

ACT III: THE CAPTAIN / Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33: Vagabonds 

 

For such a rough-and-tumble looking fellow — the shock of dark curls, broad, capable shoulders, that infernal glow of one who spends a deal of time out in the elements — Delaney had a remarkably gentle touch. Kit might have remarked on it, were he not holding his breath in suspense as Delaney's fingertips feathered whisper-soft along the side of his broken nose, testing the setting. Rarely had Kit ever been caressed with such a light touch. The last time had been in this very room, two weeks ago, when he'd been drenched in blood and outrage, and Delaney's patient skill had brought him so much comfort. How Kit admired a man who was clever with his hands.

"Does it hurt?" Delaney asked, gazing critically at his own handiwork.

"Not in the least." Anyway, it was worth an occasional small throbbing for an excuse to come visit Delaney again in the middle of the day. Kit slid up his own forefinger to trace the now somewhat divergent line of his nose, out of its bandages for the first time in a fortnight. "How does it look?"

“’T’would take more than a few broken bones to spoil your looks, Mr. Bell."

Kit glanced into the other man's face, wounded to be suspected of fishing for compliments, but Delaney's easy grin disarmed him.

"Well, Jack will be glad to hear it," said Kit. "He'll need all the resources he can lay claim to, now that we're off again."

Delaney's grin dimmed a bit; he pushed back his chair and began collecting the bits of used tape and plaster. Kit stayed where he was, perched at the edge of the bed; that and the one chair were the only seating to be had in Delaney's Spartan one-room lodging near the Heathpoole waterfront. Uncertain what to say in the sudden silence, Kit busied himself gazing about the room. It was scantily furnished with a washstand, basin and ewer in one corner, a small, square table under the one window with the view toward the docks, and a battered wardrobe against the far wall—although a peek through one sagging-open door revealed that such clothing as Delaney possessed were hung rather grudgingly above a deflated canvas sea-bag on the wardrobe floor which was their usual residence.

Yet, as utilitarian as it was, the room was graced with a few small, domestic touches that Kit found charming. Two or three sea-polished stones from the harbor were arranged in the middle of the table on a little square of white linen with beautifully embroidered edges. The small, cracked leather kit bag to which Delaney returned his instruments bespoke of some ancient, sentimental vintage. And as Delaney carried the bag back to its place on the washstand, Kit noticed a small, framed watercolor portrait propped up against the glass. The subject was a Negro woman with a friendly, humorous face, her black hair tortured up into a style that had been fashionable perhaps twenty years earlier.

"And who is that handsome creature?" Kit asked, nodding to the picture.

Delaney turned from the washstand to smile at him again. "My mother.  She was an African laundress employed by the dockyard at Plymouth. Me dad was an Irishman, second surgeon's mate on a man-of-war."

"Oho," said Kit.

"After the war, they kept a dry goods shop in Plymouth, which is how I come to be the vagabond you see before you," Delaney grinned again. "Bit of a waterfront mongrel, as you might say. Born to roam."

"Like me." Kit smiled. "I was whelped among boothers, myself."

"There is nothing mongrel about you, Mr. Bell."

"Nor you, my dear, if we are to speak of the inner man." Kit was instantly shocked to hear something so unadorned and honest escape his lips. But Delaney's only response was a glow of pleasure in his dark hazel eyes as he came back to his chair, which Kit was very pleased in turn to have caused. He decided to let the comment linger in the air between them a moment longer while he buttoned up his collar and reached for the stock he'd unwound and set aside to escape whatever fallout of plaster or blood might be forthcoming. But of course, Delaney was too skilled for that.

"Look here, Delaney, since you have been intimate with my nose, I believe we may be informal," Kit went on, wrapping the stock round his neck. "Haven't you a given name I ought to know about?"

Delaney sat back in his chair. "Albert Aloysius," he replied with a sardonic twist of his mouth.

"Oh dear. Well, I suppose I might call you Bertie."

"I've pounded men for less," Delaney assured him.

Kit grinned, stood, and sauntered over to the little glass above the washstand to finish tying his stock in its elaborate knot. Glancing again at the little watercolor, he could see a lot of the mother in the son, a certain lively warmth about the eyes.

"How soon do you leave, then?"

In the glass, Kit could see that Delaney had turned sideways in his chair to watch him, his arm draped over the back.

"Jack has managed to secure the lease on our old playhouse in Kelsingham for one month," said Kit, attending to his stock. "Drowsy little hamlet about six miles out of Bristol. News has got out about the Fairweathers taking themselves off to Italy, it seems, and some other company has grabbed up the place for the winter season. But they do not take possession until the end of October, so we've a one-month reprieve before we are all cast homeless into the world once more." He finished off his bow with a flourish and turned again to his friend. "We've two final performances this weekend, and then we're off."

Delaney stood too. "Oh, aye, I sense a chill about to come over Heathpoole soon. Best be moving on myself."

Kit started for his coat, a most flattering shade of Delft blue, laid carefully across the bed, and Delaney picked it up and held it open for him.

"And where will you go?" asked Kit, trying not to sound bereft as he turned his back on Delaney to slide his arms into the sleeves.

"Why, I fancy the bustle of a city again," said Delaney, behind him, settling the coat over Kit's shoulders. "Things are about to become very quiet round here, I'm afraid. But there's always boat work to be found in Bristol."


 

The coach route out of Bristol had been a bone-shattering exercise in torture. Matthew Forrester had found his land legs faster after two months at sea than after a day and a half zig-zagging about on English coaching roads. It was all he could do not to sway on his feet as he left the coaching inn and walked away from the harbor toward the principal district of the town. Damned bother it was, coming all the way down here; everything to do with his connection to Charles Crowder was turning into a damned bother.

But what could he do about it now? He was already in too deep with the fellow to refuse him this service. Hotspur was highly strung, and Crowder liked his captains fast and daring, to keep up with the competition. Was it Forrester's fault his ship always needed extra attention after a transatlantic crossing for Crowder Mills? Well, you could never say the old fellow was not forthcoming with the funds; it was wonderful how much he was willing to pay to get his way.

It occurred to Matty — and not for the first time, of late — to wonder if he'd been mistaken in allowing himself to become so indebted to Charles Crowder in a financial way. And — not for the first time — he could see no other way around it. Too often, he found himself financially embarrassed, yet he must keep up appearances, mostly for the sake of gentleman clients like Crowder. There could be nothing perceived to be shabby about the Hotspur, nor her service, nor indeed, himself, to give potential consignees any sort of troubling doubts. That was how reputations were made.

Matty turned a corner onto Prospect Avenue and followed the traffic for the public square. Here were ladies and gentlemen in evening dress, a carriage or two, and parties of merrymakers laughing and gossiping together, all making the same heading as himself, toward a large, square box of a building at the far end of Prospect Square, by which he knew he'd found the road to the theatre. Glancing at his reflection in a shop window, he tipped up his hat slightly, gave a surreptitious pat to the navy blue tailcoat he wore over light tan-colored trousers. He cared little for fashion, indeed, he grieved that it was no longer considered fashionable for a gentleman to sport his sword in public. He kept his concealed in his ebony walking stick, of course; didn't feel dressed without it. That had cost him dearly, as well, but appearances must be kept up. As his father never tired of telling him.

He fell into step a respectable few paces behind a quartet of ladies and gentlemen and permitted himself a momentary brood over his father. If Matty could just lay claim to the rest of his inheritance, he would not be obliged to participate in Crowder's clandestine schemes, a damned waste of his talents and time. But no, his late mother's portion, which by every right ought to have come to him at her death, was still held in trust. A codicil, the damned lawyers called it, a provision by which he could not claim what was rightfully his until the occasion of his marriage. And his father, who might certainly have weighed in on his son's behalf, had he any parental feeling at all, did nothing to alter the situation. Indeed, Matty was convinced his pater had been behind the scheme from the start.

Matthew Forrester had much to achieve in his future: his reputation as a seafaring man of no little bravery, acumen, and experience. A gentleman of substance in his own right, apart from his father's fortune.  And a posting — not too far in the future, he hoped — to a diplomatic situation in some important foreign embassy. He was fluent in Spanish, of course, after his time in the Indies, and diplomatic overtures were being made to South America, although Spain would be the more fortunate posting. Ambassador Forrester — that was the way to make his mark on the world.

But nowhere on the list of his immediate ambitions was the word "wife." Women he had aplenty; he had never been at a loss to charm the ladies. Dewy debutantes, neglected wives, lusty widows, and every category of the female sex in between, they all threw themselves at Matty Forrester. Even those who feigned indifference in public could always be persuaded behind closed doors; the chase, the hunt, the victory, that was often the most enjoyable part. So what should he do with a wife?

Women were fine sport, but a wife required the sort of attention and affection he could ill afford to pay, especially at this stage of life, still young and in his prime. Wives were for old men, men like his father. Perhaps when Matty was old and settled, and a fortunate match came along, he would agree, but until then, he had far too much to do.

But the blasted codicil weighed him down like a fouled anchor, blighting all his plans. That's why he'd had to agree to Crowder's business proposition, why he was obliged to run this errand so far out of his way. He wanted to have a look at his victim beforehand, so there could be no mistake later. Laying a charge of piracy was a deadly serious business, and he wanted to make sure he knew what he was about. What could this fellow possibly have done to Crowder, Matty wondered, to earn such a brutal revenge? But Matty couldn't concern himself with that; likely some miserable vagabond, as all players were, who'd hardly be missed.

It was fortunate for Crowder that Matty was known to have been lost at sea in the Indies for a period in his youth, so Matty's word would carry some weight. To say nothing of the considerable weight of his family name. But at least he'd seen to it that he'd be well paid for the crime of perjuring himself on Crowder's behalf. And since Crowder was paying so handsomely, he might as well give the tedious old Puritan his money's worth.

At last, Matty gained the Heathpoole Playhouse and paid his five shillings for a front-row seat in the first row of boxes, to the right of the pit — close enough to the stage to get a good view without being as observable himself as he would have been on a bench in the pit. It would not do to be seen before Crowder's plan could be put in motion. Glancing at the playbill, he saw that the first piece was a nautical melodrama, The Lure of the Indies (having its "Farewell Performance!"), to be followed by some interludes and a farce; he hoped he wouldn't have to stay for the whole dreary business before he found what he was looking for.

He was in luck. The quarry he sought, Mr. Dance, was the first player onstage, in the role of a waterfront tavern-keeper. A tall fellow in a mop of greying hair, sporting an apron, he seemed completely ordinary, although something familiar about him that Matty couldn't quite place nagged at him. The barman had a pretty young niece, an orphan, and he worried over her future until a handsome young sea captain came on the scene — called "Starhawke," of all damn fool names. The uncle disapproved of Starhawke, and something in their fencing and baiting each other again struck Matty as familiar. Could he have seen this play before? But he wasn't much of a playgoer, not if he could possibly help it.

The captain fell ill with fever and the niece nursed him back to health amid a great load of romantic seawash. The uncle came around and handed her over in marriage, and then the young couple were off to the Indies — not a moment too soon, for Matty's taste. And things perked up considerably when pirates came on in the last act, commanded by a black-bearded villain played by one Mr. Foyle. Matty was surprised at how realistically the pirate crew boarded the ship — clambering up over the wales while their fellows made a hellish noise offstage — and the quality of the climactic battle scene, as if it were staged by someone who actually knew something about swordfighting. Starhawke dealt a death blow to the pirate captain, which sent the rest of the pirates scurrying over the side like dogs, but later died of his wounds in the arms of his bride — among many long-winded professions of love.

 

By the time it was over, Matty hadn't even noticed that the Dance fellow had completely disappeared from the action. Cursing his inattention, Matty saw that he was due back in the first interlude, and so resolved to watch a little longer. But he had to check his playbill again when a Harlequin shot out of the wings and began tumbling around the stage in double time. Could this be the same person? He was the same lanky build, but his hair was dark (the grey must have been a wig), and the black mask across his eyes left the rest of his face exposed.

As soon as he rolled upright again, Dance began to juggle three, no, four oranges, while strolling to the front of the stage. Again, that uneasy sense of something familiar prickled the back of Matty's neck, and he leaned forward surreptitiously in the shadows of his box, just as the Harlequin began to speak. He was reciting some sort of comic doggerel, but Matty lost all track of the meaning of the words as it all suddenly clicked into place in his mind — the careless posture, the acrobatics, that voice . . .

"Danzador," Matty breathed into the shadows.

Hellfire, wasn't he supposed to be dead? Marooned with the fever on a deserted island in the Virgins, two, maybe three years ago now. But even shorn of his beard, there could be no mistaking Jack Danzador. Matty had seen him tumbling across the deck of the Blessed Providence and vaulting up and down in the rigging thousands of times; they had boarded dozens of prizes together, Jack armed with nothing but a tumbler's staff, dodging blades and disarming opponents like a dervish.

Bloody Goddamn, Matty was bound to lay a charge of piracy against the one man in England who could lay the same charge against him!

He had not even begun to comprehend all the ways his involvement in this business might blow up in his face when another figure appeared onstage. A woman this time, in a bouncy, motley-patterned skirt that exposed her ankles, and a low-cut bodice. She skipped out of the wings, tumbled up to Dance, and they began tossing the oranges back and forth. And although Matty had rarely seen her in female rig before, and never with her dark hair done up in back with ringlets down the side, as she wore it now, her face was not masked, and it was only an afterthought when he glanced again at the playbill and saw the name "Lightfoot."

Jack and Tory, alive, and here in England — how had they managed it? Somehow, she had kept her damned acrobat from dying of the fever. Was she part witch after all? And look at them now, cavorting on a public stage together, as easy as you please, moving and laughing and juggling together as if they owned the world, while the ship of all of Matty's dreams and future plans sank into ruin.

Or did it? Although he had shrunk himself deep into the darkest shadows of his box, Matty was still scrutinizing the figures onstage with all his attention, the easy way they moved together, the way they looked at each other. Women were simple in matters of love, Matty knew that much. If Tory still cared so much for her acrobat, then Matty thought there might yet be a way to turn this to his advantage, after all. It would take all of his charm, and cunning, and nerve, but Tory Lightfoot bounding back into his life so unexpectedly might well be the answer to all of his problems.

 

Top: Harbour Life (Bristol) by Ken Petts (1907 - 1992)

Above right: A Captain in the Navy from A book explaining the ranks and dignities
of British Society by C Lamb (1809) Above left: Harlequinade (detail), by Clarke Hutton, 1946 

Above left: Harlequinade (detail), by Clarke Hutton, 1946
 

CHAPTER 32: Exploded

The company felt jubilant enough to produce a riotous Harlequin and the Goddess of Love, presented “as a benefit for Mr. Dance and Mrs. Lightfoot.” Jenny played Venus behind a lavish mask, specially painted by Tom Ashbrook, as Kit had suggested. It drew a house. And to thank Alphonse, Jack engineered a full-scale production of The Tempest for the following week, audaciously billed as a benefit for the Heathpoole Antislavery Committee, a small but vocal provincial group spearheaded out of the law offices of Meade and Morton. They drew little business from the Wells, where many holiday revelers were connected with the West Indies in a commercial way. But seafaring fortunes in Heathpoole had been built upon timber and smuggling, not flesh-peddling, and bills posted in the outlying villages drew sympathizers and curiosity seekers alike, while Delaney thumped up business all along the waterfront.

Jack was feeling decidedly more like Prospero, the magician, than Harlequin, the clown, on the morning he took himself down to the Court House to see about the lease on the playhouse. He had conjured modest profits out of the Heathpoole season, paid his rent promptly after every play night, forty-one performances in ten weeks, kept up with the salaries of his people and paid half the deposit back to the family of the original lessee. He felt confident, now, proposing a higher bid to secure the playhouse for twelve weeks next summer. Not even the London theatres could expect to draw houses all the year long; the essence of a player's life would aways be strolling. But with Heathpoole as a home base, Jack thought he might be able to keep the company together throughout the year. They might see what could be done with Fairweather’s old Wessex circuit, perhaps even reclaim the Kelsingham playhouse for the winter, as long as they could always find refuge at Heathpoole. Perhaps even a Christmas season here, December and January, nothing but pantomimes. Tory would like that.

And Jack continued embroidering this pleasant fantasy right up to the moment that it all blew up in his face.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Dance,” said Alderman Norris, whose province it was to lease the playhouse, among many other minor civic duties. “But the township has already accepted a preemptive bid for the license to the playhouse.”

“For next summer?” Jack gaped. “Already?”

“For a year’s time.”

“But . . .  may I not offer a counter bid?” As if he and Alphonse had not calculated to the penny exactly how much they could afford to bid.

“As I said, sir, the previous bid is preemptive.” But because Norris liked Jack and approved of the revenue his summer season had brought to the town, the alderman silently scribbled a sum on a scrap of paper and showed it to him.

“Eight thousand pounds?” Jack was thunderstruck; ten thousand would secure the lease on Drury Lane in London. “He can never hope to realize that kind of profit, not in such a small house.”

“He does not have to,” said Norris delicately. “He has paid the entire sum in advance to secure the license.”
    
Jack sat slowly back in his chair, gripping the arms as if he were afraid of tumbling out.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, that information is confidential.”

Jack nodded. Of course. “And his tenure begins in the new year?”

Norris looked uncomfortable and glanced down at his papers. “Your lease expires in one more week. The term of the new lessee begins on the following day.”

It was a balmy late summer mid-day, but Jack dragged himself along as if he were battling snowdrifts and blizzards, his posture hunched forward, his expression stormy. How could he have lost the Heathpoole playhouse so suddenly, so completely? The first place in nearly a year in England that he had almost dared to think of as home. How many nights had they created alchemy on their little stage to bewitch a delighted audience? How many mornings had he and Tory wakened with the sun and made slow, sweet love in their little balcony room above the sea, as if they owned the world? All of it exploded, now. In eight days’ time, they would be on the streets again with a property coach, a pair, and no prospects whatsoever.

A fine manager he'd proved to be, taking the reigns of the company in March only to see it utterly ruined by August.  Where could they go now? They could never return to the Brewhouse Theatre in Thornhampton so soon. Where else could they go? Back to Shepperton Close? Charton-on-Crewe? Become strollers in fact, making their way blindly to whatever barns and halls might be available for the night? Was that what he had brought Tory back for? Was that the life for which he'd sacrificed her freedom?

He must write to Kelsingham at once, to find out if there was any hope of securing the playhouse there on such short notice. Fairweather did not usually open up there until nearly Christmas; the Theatres Royal at Bath and Bristol would be enormous competition, with their complement of London actors on the boards for another month until the London patent theatre re-opened in October. But they must try to feed off the traffic between the two towns in this high season. "Sensations," that was Fairweather's usual ploy, in contrast to the serious drama of the two neighboring patent houses. But  the company was well known in Kelsingham, and if profits were small, at least they could all live in the playhouse for protection. It would certainly be cheaper than lodgings.

But without a guarantee for a summer, let alone a winter playhouse, should Kelsingham prove unavailable, there was no way for a company to support itself. They must disband, all of them going their separate ways, trying their luck with whatever other companies might have them. He thought of Jenny, unemployed and vulnerable with her damaged face; how could he protect her, now? Even Kit would have a difficult time of it right now, finding another place, with that raccoon bruise across his eyes. Jack had put him on for Caliban and Kit was wonderfully funny and touching in the part, but no one would employ him as the romantic juvenile at the moment. Where would they all go?


 

Tory knew the minute she saw Jack's expression that she wasn't going to like whatever it was he had to tell her with such urgency. She closed the door to the manager's office behind her and steeled herself. When he told her they must abandon Heathpoole, it was as if a stage trapdoor had swung open under her. It was all she could do not to grasp the desk for support, or clutch her heart like an ingenue in a melodrama.

"I'm so sorry, Rusty. I know how you love this place." Jack looked miserable enough for both of them, and Tory congratulated herself on containing her dismay.

"I love you, hombre," she said instead. "It doesn't matter to me where we are."

He looked at her doubtfully,  then shook his head. "Christ, I've made such a bloody mess of things —"

"It's Crowder who's made a mess of things, I'd say," Tory interrupted him. "You've done everything humanly possible to —"

But Jack was suddenly staring at her. "And I'm a prize idiot into the bargain," he exclaimed. "Who else would have the means, much less the desire, to turn us all out on the streets? Crowder. Of course. "

 

 

Charles Crowder did not care to entertain his guest at his agent's office in Bristol, where he was accustomed to doing business. He always had the unpleasant impulse to count the silverware after the fellow was gone. So instead, he had agreed to meet Henry Harding  at this anonymous tavern just off Queen Square, near the waterfront, at an hour of midday when it was likely to be the least populated.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harding," Crowder said again, eyeing the other's glass in hopes of concluding their interview before he was obliged to buy him another drink. "But as you are no longer a member of the company in question, I'm afraid I have no other employment for you."

"Well, seeing as I lost my situation on your account, sir," Harding began again, "I only thought . . . "

He did not quite have the nerve to give voice to his further thoughts, nor did Crowder feel moved to smooth over the awkward moment of silence. He wanted his indifference to fully register before he spoke again.

"Had you anything to tell me about this Dance fellow before he joined the company," Crowder said at last, "that might be of value to me."

Harding sat back in his chair, frowning, so that Crowder had time to study the showy but not elegant cut of his clothing and the oiled gloss on his dark hair. "Nobody'd ever heard of 'em before," Harding offered. "Said they'd had an engagement in the West Indies, of all godforsaken places, and one could believe it with that odd little Belair in tow. But otherwise . . . " He glanced all round the room, as if searching for inspiration, until his gaze fell on the notice board nearby; a tattered, yellowing broadsheet screamed Pirate's Curse! from amidst a layer of shipping timetables and notices of warehouse auctions.

"Fellow might have been a pirate, for all anybody knows," Harding grumbled. He sought the comfort of a last fortifying swig from his glass before he noticed the look on Crowder's face.

"Indeed he might," said Crowder.

Harding peered at him for a long interval before he began to take his meaning. Crowder was gratified to see that the fellow warmed to the idea once he finally began to comprehend it.

"Why — I suppose inquiries might be made — "

"Inquiries, bah! Waste of valuable time," said Crowder briskly. "All we need is an accusation that will stand up in court. From an unimpeachable source."

Harding frowned again. "Well, but that would require someone who has in fact been to the Indies. Have you business interests there?"

"I have not." Crowder responded. "But I know someone who has."

 

Top: Iain Mackay as Prospero, The Tempest, Royal Birmingham Ballet, 2016

CHAPTER 31: Gentlemen of Business

 

It was not the handsome inn on Prospect Square nor the resort hotel at the Wells, but a quiet, secluded little hotel in a less commercial district of the town where they found Charles Crowder. It was the sort of place where gentlemen of business engaged in the more illicit aspects of seafaring commerce might meet with their captains in perfect discretion. Scratch the cellar floor, Jack supposed, and one would find a timbered tunnel leading to one of the many shallow and hidden tributaries that meandered up into the coastline beyond the Heathpoole quayside.

The dour clerk behind the desk this morning was not about to allow them upstairs to harry one of his guests. But Dalton recited his credentials, explained that their business was a legal matter and expressed regret should they be forced to bring a constable onto the premises. With this last the clerk agreed, and reluctantly sent a boy upstairs to fetch Crowder down. Jack nodded for Alphonse to slip round the back in case their quarry attempted to bolt. But he might have known any fellow willing to leave his own wife in such a state would not scruple to crow about it.

“You had better be here to return my wife to me,” Crowder exclaimed as he stormed down the stairs, a timorous servant at his heels. “Otherwise, you have no legal business of any kind with me. She may have gone crying on your shoulder, Dance, but I’ll have her in the end. I am entirely within my rights.”

“Gentlemen!” hissed the clerk. “Be so good as to take your business into the parlor.” He nodded them into an adjoining room fitted out with several small tables and clusters of chairs where two or three parties of gentlemen were conducting business. Dalton lead the way to a vacant corner table and Jack ushered Crowder and his man in before him.

“Well, where is she?” demanded Crowder, rounding upon Jack.

“Safe,” Jack replied, gazing back at him coolly. He was not inclined to hurry this moment; he was going to enjoy it too much. “She is nearby, but for obvious reasons, she has no wish to see you. We are here to make sure she never has to again.”

Crowder took a menacing step toward him just as Alphonse came into the room behind him. Jack was just fantasizing about the single blow that would wipe that expression of smug superiority off Crowder’s face when Dalton stepped into the breach to explain their position. From a prudent distance, Jack unrolled the charcoal sketch. Crowder’s response was an angry bark of brittle laughter.

“That is only a facsimile, it’s not proof,” he scoffed. “And anyway, what of it? A man may discipline his own wife.”

“Life-threatening cruelty is a crime, Mr. Crowder. Even against one’s wife,” Dalton replied calmly. “I do not speak at present of the crime of employing brigands to assault another gentleman, although we have witnesses who will testify to this, as well.”

That slowed Crowder’s outrage for a moment. He was apparently less sure of his battery rights over victims who were not bound to him in marriage.

“I demand the presence of my lawyer,” he snarled. “You cannot force me to sign anything. It will never stand up in court.”

“No, indeed,” Dalton agreed. “We prefer you to sign of your own free will. Which is perfectly legal without benefit of counsel.”

“And if I refuse?”

Jack nodded to Alphonse, who had already signaled to the hired carriage outside where the others were waiting. Alphonse went to the parlor door and escorted in Tory, with Jenny on her arm. Jenny wore a fresh frock and a straw hat draped with heavy gauze that concealed her face; Tory had gone to her lodgings to collect them. They stood in the entry for a moment, long enough for every other gentleman in the room to glance up and note their presence, the uncommon sight of two women in this private room devoted to the business of gentlemen, and a very small Negro man. Then Alphonse brought them forward.

“Refuse,” said Jack quietly, as Crowder glared at his shrouded wife, “and Mrs. Kennett will remove her veil. We will take a deposition from every gentleman in this room to support the veracity of our sketch. You will be in Chancery within a fortnight to answer a charge of extreme marital cruelty. A charge sensational enough, I believe, to have repercussions all the way to Leeds.”

“You may end this now, with a signature freely given,” Dalton put in. “Or end it later, in a court of law. The choice is entirely yours.”

Other men in the room were discreetly shifting in their seats to gaze at them. Crowder wrenched his eyes away from his wife and noticed their interest. He glared at Jack, who stared back at him without another word. He glared at Dalton, who produced a pen. The document was placed on the table before him.

“I suppose you know this will devastate your son, Madame,” he growled, not looking up from the deed. “Whose only crime is wanting his mother.”

Jenny staggered on Tory’s arm as if she’d been struck again. Jack moved to her other side, but he could already feel her posture stiffening as she steadied herself, briefly, on the support of his arm.

“Pay particular note to the clause which forbids any future contact of any kind,” suggested Dalton. “Legal, physical, written or verbal.”

“I see it,” Crowder grunted.

“And here,” Dalton continued, smoothly, “a bond of twenty-thousand pounds to be forfeit if you break the terms of this deed.”

“I am to take all the risk, I see. And what am I to gain from this piece of extortion?”

“Your reputation, sir,” murmured Dalton.

Charles Crowder set his mouth and signed the deed.

“And what shall she forfeit,” he grumbled on. “She’s never had twenty-thousand pounds in her life.”

Dalton glanced up. “Mr. Dance?”

Jack stepped up to the table and wordlessly signed the deed as trustee for Mrs. Jane Kennett Crowder. When he straightened up, Crowder was almost smiling at him, a cold, mirthless leer.

“So you presume to offer the protection of a husband, do you?”

“Of a friend,” said Jack. “I would not burden her with another husband.”

“We shall see how far your protection reaches,” Crowder spat, pushing suddenly to his feet. Turning to Jenny, he hissed, “And as for you, if you think —”

“Tut, sir,” Dalton interrupted, as he inserted himself between them. “The next word out of your mouth to this lady will be actionable.”

Crowder spun about like a bear in a pit, finally turning his fury onto Jack.

“This is not over,” Crowder fumed. Then he shouldered his way out of the room.

An hour later, Charles Crowder and his servant boarded the coach for London. Tory and Jenny had retired to the carriage, but Thomas, Kit and Mr. Delaney had appeared in the hotel lobby with Jack, Alphonse and Dalton to convince him that any future time spent in Heathpoole would be futile.

“Your recommendation to me was in no way overstated, Mr. Dalton,” said Alphonse, reaching up to shake the conveyancer by the hand as the coach rattled off. “You have been a very great help.”

“Delighted to be of service, Mr. Belair,” replied Dalton, with a little bow. “Please do not hesitate to call upon me again.”
    
And thank you, Mr. Belair,” Jenny spoke up, earnestly, as the gentlemen climbed back into the waiting carriage.

“It’s fortunate for us you’ve been spending so much time at the solicitor’s,” Jack agreed, settling in beside Alphonse. “Short of wringing that fellow’s neck, I shouldn’t have known which way to proceed.”

“But it is my pleasure,” Alphonse replied, nodding to Jenny. “My purpose in coming to this country was to fight against slavery. It is very gratifying to have finally won a victory.”

 

 

Top: Brooks’ Club, from Microcosm of London, Thomas Rowlandson, 1808.
Above: Capote hat with veil, Regency fashion plate

CHAPTER 30: A Fine Pair of Gargoyles

There was sun in the window when Jenny awoke. Burrowed deep in the unfamiliar bedclothes, she opened her good eye and saw the paint room full of daylight. A warm hand was resting lightly on her shoulder and when she turned toward it, she saw Thomas smiling down at her. She started to smile back, but pain tore across her lip

"How do you feel?" he asked her gently.


"Better than I look, no doubt."

"Do you want to see anyone? Or wait until later?" His eyes darted back over his shoulder.

"I’m all right," Jenny said, half-turning to see who it was.

Tory and Jack were standing just behind Thomas. Jack was glowering; Tory was white with rage. When they saw she was awake, Thomas stood aside and Tory rushed in to crouch down beside the bed.

"He’s not going to get away with this," Tory seethed, hugging her friend.

"But there’s nothing to be done." Jenny sighed.

"Oh yes there is," said Jack, reaching down to help Tory to her feet, and slipping a supportive arm around her. He probably didn’t even realize the tenderness of the gesture, it was so instinctive. "Come into my office, when you feel well enough, Jenny. We’re going to put a stop to this."

She sat up as they went out and found herself dressed only in her chemise. She scarcely remembered getting out of her clothes last night. But she remembered Thomas sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking her unbound hair until she fell asleep. She never dreamed, so she could only pray that what she remembered from last night was real. At least as real as her swollen, encrusted eye and her throbbing cheek. When she chanced another glance at Thomas, he was standing at the foot of the little bed with a thick length of fabric folded over in his arms. The look in his eyes as he gazed at her told her all she needed to know. Peering past him, she saw a blanket thrown over a couple of folded painting tarps on the floor, where he must have spent the night. Then he smiled and held out the thing in his hands, one of his old paint-splattered smocks.

"Put this on for now," he told her. "We’ll sort out the rest of your things later."

When Jenny had made a reasonable attempt to wash up and pulled on the canvas smock over her chemise and nibbled at a bun and some coffee Thomas had procured for her, she let him escort her down to Jack’s office. Jack was sitting behind his desk with Tory perched on the arm of his chair. Alphonse Belair and a thin gentleman Jenny did not recognize sat at one end of the broad desk. They motioned her to a chair opposite Jack and Jenny braced for their pitying stares. But Mr. Belair was all business.

"Mrs. Kennett, allow me to introduce Mr. Dalton. He is a licensed conveyancer in the office of our solicitor."

"It is my business to write up legal deeds," murmured Mr. Dalton, with a nod. "At your service, Madame."

"Alphonse has had a very busy morning," Jack explained to her. "He believes there is a legal solution to your problem."

"If it is not too distressing, Mrs. Kennett," Belair went on kindly, "Can you tell Mr. Dalton who assaulted you?"

Jenny glanced again at Jack and Tory, surprised, but she turned to Dalton. "It was my husband, Charles Everett Crowder."

"You saw him clearly? There could be no mistake?"

"None."

Mr. Dalton scribbled something on a paper before him.

"There are very few grounds upon which a wife may sue her husband for separation," Alphonse said to Jenny. "Life-threatening cruelty is one of them."

Jenny slumped back a little in her chair. For a moment she had almost dared to hope.

"If you can prove it," she sighed. "If you can convince a judge it was not earned by bad behavior."

"Nobody 'earns' such punishment," said Tory.

"I have the deposition of several witnesses in this room as to your condition," said Mr. Dalton. "Mr. Ashbrook is quite specific as to the time of your appearance at the theatre last night. And we have this."

He withdrew from behind the desk a sheet of parchment about the size of one of Thomas’ sketchbooks. It was another charcoal drawing of her battered face, like the one Thomas had sketched last night, but without the addition of the colored chalks. The conveyancer brought it closer so she could see that the page had been dated this morning and bore Dalton’s signature, as a witness. She glanced at Thomas, standing beside her chair.

"I made another one last night, while you were sleeping," he told her.

"We can have you up to Doctor’s Commons in London by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, looking exactly as you do, now," said Jack. "Once you’ve obtained a matrimonial citation against so distinguished a person, a very public court hearing is guaranteed."

"But he will only sue me in return for my adultery," Jenny’s eyes fell, " . . . my  . . . abandonment."

"In which case," Tory suggested gently, "You will be free of him. If he wins his suit."

Jenny frowned up at her. She had asked Crowder often enough to dissolve their union in court.

"But he won’t win," Jack added. "You will. As soon as we have this drawing published in every newspaper in London."

"God’s blood," Jenny whispered aghast. "He would murder me."

Thomas put a steadying hand on her shoulder as Mr. Dalton made another private note.

"I don’t believe it will come to that, Mrs. Kennett," said Belair. "Do you not think Mr. Crowder would do everything in his power to avoid such public litigation?"

She nodded warily.

"Mr. Dalton suggests a deed of private separation drawn up between yourself and your husband. A mutual agreement of terms to be written up by Mr. Dalton himself. It is as binding as a judicial separation obtained in court, but far less public."

"But . . . he will never consent."

"He must," countered Belair, "or face the humiliation of a very public trial at the court of King's Bench. From which, win or lose, he can only emerge as a monster. In either case, as Victoria says, you will be rid of him."

Jenny had never even dared to imagine what her existence might be like without the ominous weight of Charles Crowder crushing the life out of her. Even during her early stage career, he was always there, occupying the barren part of her heart, blighting her hopes.

"What sort of terms?" she asked.

"Whatever you like, Madame." Mr. Dalton folded his hands and leaned forward, a model of discretion and efficiency. "In the most usual cases, the gentleman is freed from responsibility for his wife’s debts while the lady receives an annual allowance to maintain herself — "

"I don’t want his money," Jenny declared.

"No, indeed?" Dalton looked astonished, but only for an instant. "Why . . . in that case, there should be no great impediment to a satisfactory conclusion. We shall ensure that he relinquish all claim to your person and your possessions, of course."

"And he must keep away from her," Tory put in. "He can’t be allowed to hound or harass her."

"No contact," noted Dalton. "That can be arranged."

"May I . . . " her voice came out so husky, Jenny swallowed and tried again. "May I ever see my son?"

But she knew the answer from the silence that followed.

"I am very much afraid," murmured Dalton, at last, "that paternal rights are always upheld in court. Even in cases where the husband’s adultery or cruelty are proved, his rights over his children are inviolate. And when a mother has been . . . long absent . . . unless you can persuade your husband to agree . . . "

Jenny hung her head as a knife twisted in her heart. As evil and oppressive as Crowder was, he was her last link to her boy. And she was about to sever it.

"You will be free of him," Tory encouraged her.

Jenny nodded again and lifted her head.

"You might also wish to include a clause against future litigation," suggested Mr. Dalton, more briskly. "Deeds of private separation are sometimes overturned in court if either party reneges upon the terms of the agreement. But such a clause must be very carefully worded. If, for example, you request that your husband not interfere with any of your future arrangements of, ah, a personal nature, a conservative magistrate might choose to overrule the entire deed on grounds that it encourages immoral behavior."

"You shall still be legally married," Belair translated. "You may not attempt to marry again, if the deed is to remain legally binding."

"One marriage in a lifetime is more than enough," Jenny agreed.

"And who shall act for the lady?" asked Dalton.

Tory frowned. "She will, of course."

"But such a thing is not possible, Madame. A married woman who chooses not to live under the protection of her husband must name a gentleman as trustee to act in her behalf and sign all the necessary documents."

"She is not allowed to sign for herself?" Tory gaped.

"I will serve as trustee," Jack broke in, before Tory could say any more. "With Mrs. Kennett’s permission."

"Thank you, Jack."

"Well, then, it will be no great matter to draw the document up," said Dalton. "How soon may we obtain the signature of the other party?"

This was met with uneasy silence, the others all glancing fitfully at each other.

"We do not know at present where he is," Belair admitted.

"I know where he was last night," Jenny sighed. "Although it is unlikely he would stay there after Kit and myself . . . " But she stopped abruptly. Kit. She had last seen him being led outside the tavern only a moment before Ben Marks had spirited her away.

"Kit!" she cried, looking desperately at the others. "Oh, God, if Crowder did this to me, what might he have done —?"

She had sprung up out of her chair before all the words were out, bolting for the door as if she might yet follow his trail, protect him, somehow from her maniac husband, if only she  —

It was only Thomas catching her by the elbow that prevented her hurtling into a jaunty figure just coming in the doorway.

Kit was dressed in the same pearl grey suit he’d worn the night before, but dark rusty patches stained his cravat and shirtfront and the cuff of one jacket sleeve. A bit of white plaster was taped entirely across his nose and there were dark purple shadows under both eyes, but he was grinning like a boy as he stepped into the room. Until he saw Jenny.

Jenny was too overwhelmed with fear and relief and shock at the sight of him to take another step, grateful for Thomas’ support. They could only stand and gape at each other for a moment. Then Kit closed the gap between them with one long stride and drew her into his arms.

"They told me you’d run away," he said, pulling her close. "Jenny, I had no idea —"

"I did run away, sparing not a single thought for you, my dear."
 
"I should never have left you alone."

"It’s my fault. Oh, Kit, your poor face!"

Kit lifted her chin very, very gently with his delicate fingertips. "Look at what is calling the kettle black!" And he kissed the top of her forehead. Then he held her out at arm’s length. "And what is this . . .  object   . . . you are wearing, Kennett?"

But he could tell by the paint splotches what it was. And he darted a curious and critical glance at Tom Ashbrook.

"Come sit down, lad," Jack said to Kit, nodding toward the chair he had vacated and brought round to the front of the desk, next to Jenny’s. "We’re discussing the future."

"I’m afraid we’re a fine pair of gargoyles for your playhouse, Jack," Kit sighed, taking his seat. "We shall have to play masked, like the Greeks. Although I expect a broken nose may give this face a more rakish character."

"They broke your nose?" cried Jenny.

"Oh, aye. But wait until you hear what I’ve learnt for my pains."

He told them how Billy had gotten him outside and punched his face against the wall, and how his friend Delaney had come along in the middle of it.

"Our Billy was hired to make away with me and leave me for dead, but he could not resist having his fun with me, first. Then when he saw what he’d done, he was so full of remorse, he repented in tears. What does it say about me, that my partners are so full of repentance? Well, at any rate, he confessed all, and Mr. Delaney and I had just marched him back to the Half Seas to find you when some other fellow comes clattering down the back stairs. Rugged-looking fellow with a mole on his cheek."

"Ben Marks," said Jenny.

"Exactly," said Kit. "'That’s the one as hired me,' says our Billy. So we thrust him out to intercept him. And Marks told him to fly away, that the lady had run off and the old boy was in a terrible state. We let Marks go his ways and stationed ourselves at both exits until Crowder himself finally emerged, muffled up and shrouded like Grim Death. We commanded Billy to disappear before I swore a complaint against him. And Mr. Delaney and I gave pursuit."

"But, darling, you must have been exhausted," said Jenny.

"Why, I was feeling a bit light-headed by the time we were done," Kit admitted. "But Delaney had a room nearby and kindly took me in. He’s been an amateur boxer in the merchant fleet; knows a very great deal about breaking and mending bones." He paused for an instant with a soft, reflective smile only Jenny would have noticed.

"But it was worth the effort, for the information we learnt," Kit continued, turning to beam at Jack. “We found the hotel where Crowder is stopping. And under what name." 

 

Top:  Doctors’ Commons in London, from Microcosm of London, Thomas Rowlandson, 1808.

Above: Court of King’s Bench, Westminster Hall from Microcosm of London, Thomas Rowlandson, 1808.

CHAPTER 29: What Fools Call Love

Jenny couldn’t tell if she was being followed and she didn’t stop to find out. She found the staircase at the end of the corridor and plunged down it into the alley behind the tavern; she could not wait for Kit, but she knew the neighborhood very well, even in the dark. She darted down a narrow passage between two warehouses that brought her to the foot of the rise, and started to climb, keeping to shadowy walls and darkened shop doorways. She could scarcely go back to her landlady’s looking like this; she could see nothing out of her left eye and tasted salty blood in her mouth. But Prospect Square was at the top of this rise. Jack and Tory had been having a late meeting with Alphonse when she and Kit left the theatre, perhaps they were there still. They would not judge her. And she must get off the street.

Even at this late hour, there was activity about the town — drunken seamen, impromptu dice games, whining tarts. Any noise, any shadow nearby might be Crowder in pursuit, or Budge or Ben Marks or any of the legions he could buy to do his bidding. But she managed to drag herself up to the top of the rise, staggered across the broad road — damn this useless eye!— and made for the square, slinking along in the shadows until she gained the playhouse at last. She felt her way round to the side of the building and stumbled down into the little well where the private door was. But when her hand closed upon the handle, it would not give.

She rattled it fiercely, pummeled the door with the flat of her hand, then slumped against it, panicked, exhausted. Disembodied laughter wafted up from the docks, or was it closer by? Echoing all round the square. In the darkness of her mind's eye, she saw Crowder’s cold eyes and implacable expression, advancing on her again, and she pounded at the door with both fists and all of her remaining strength.

Then the door gave way and she tumbled into Thomas Ashbrook.

"Mrs. Kennett? Good God, come inside."

He drew her to one side and she collapsed against the interior wall, gulping for breath, as he pushed the door shut behind her and locked it again. He had hung a lantern in the stairwell behind him, there could be no mistaking the state she was in.

"I’m sorry," she gasped, lowering her head, ashamed. "I thought . . . is Tory . . . Jack . . ?"

"They went out with Mr. Belair." Ashbrook slipped his arm around her waist and drew her gently away from the wall toward the stairwell. "Come inside. Can you manage the stairs? Take the lantern."

Jenny did as she was told, too exhausted to resist, grateful for Mr. Ashbrook’s strong arm supporting her, his patience guiding her up the back stairs. Another, more cheerful light glowed in the paint room; it was not at all cold in August. Ashbrook led her past the litter of sketches and canvas and frames and grooves and pulleys and paints and around to a little domestic corner under a window. There was a washstand and a rumpled bed, even a little geranium in a pot on the window sill, which Jenny found both absurd and touching. He eased her down onto the bed and went to collect his water jug and basin and a clean rag, perching on the edge of the bed beside her to begin dabbing at her face very gently with the damp rag. She saw yellow stains of dirt and sweat and bigger smears of blood on the rag every time he withdrew it to dip again in the water.

"I’m sorry to cause you all this trouble, Mr. Ashbrook," she apologized again.

"It’s no trouble, Mrs. Kennett. I’m glad you were able to find your way here."

He dabbed very gingerly at her cheek below her swollen left eye and she winced. "Sorry . . . sorry," he murmured. "Not to be indelicate, but is there anything I cannot see, bruises, sprains or broken bones, that need attention?"

Jenny shook her head, slowly. "I don’t think so." Only her head and shoulders were throbbing, but shame clawed at her as Mr. Ashbrook went stoically about his work. ”Do you not want to know what happened?" she whispered, at last.

She glanced at him with her good eye. But he was studiously inspecting her cheek. "No," he said, quietly. "I do not."

Jenny stared down at her hands. He knew about her escapades with Kit; no doubt he thought this was how they all ended up. What sort of a woman must he think she was? What sort of a woman was she?

"Take this, Mrs, Kennett."

She looked up to see Ashbrook offering her a small glass of brandy. She reached for it gratefully.

"Spiritous liquors?"

"For medicinal use only, of course. To chase away the waterfront damp."

She sipped and it burned her sore lip. "God’s blood, what a sight I must be," she groaned. "I can never go onstage like this."

"Well, it’s not so bad as all that. There’s almost nothing that can’t be put right with a little paint."

She cast him a dubious look and he smiled.

"I’ll show you," he said, and he rummaged among his things for a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. He drew up a wooden stool and worked quickly while she sipped her brandy. When he handed it to her, she almost dropped her glass. The creature he had drawn had a swollen lump like a piece of rotting fruit for one eye, scratches along one cheek, a cracked and puffy bottom lip and a bruised jaw. Yet, for all the time she had spent in front of a glass, she could not help but notice what a strong likeness it was. The good eye was lively and the mouth very tenderly rendered, despite the forlorn expression. It seemed to be the work of a hand that knew its subject very well.

"And this is meant to make me feel better?"

"This is only where we begin," Ashbrook replied, sliding off his stool to collect some colored chalks. He sat beside her again and propped the sketch up on his knees. "There is nothing to be done about the eye, for now, you must enter from stage left and exit to the right. But you see, a little flesh tone will cover the scratches, and a little rose for color . . . " And he applied the colored chalks sparingly to the portrait, blending them very gently with his fingertips. “It will look better when we use real make-up, of course.“ He colored the bruise mark in with purple, neutralized it with stark white and blended a touch of pink over all.

"This hollow under your good eye will darken a bit in the next few days, but again, a bit of white will tone it down." As he worked, he added a little dash of green to the open eye in the portrait, without looking up at her; he knew which eye was which color. "And for lip rouge, you must use the darkest red, to match the split . . . " and he rubbed a dark crimson into the lips. "There, you see?"

Jenny looked at the garish thing and laughed. It hurt her lip, but she couldn’t help herself. Ashbrook grinned back, his candid, open smile.

"Fine, if I’m needed to play the Whore of Babylon," she giggled.

"But stage make-up is expected to be overdone," he pointed out. "I daresay you’ll begin a rage for scarlet mouths and lavender skin among the fashionable ladies of Heathpoole."

Jenny laughed again, great round ringing peals to chase away the last of her fears. "And cauliflower eyes," she wheezed. "Every prize-fighter shall be in fashion!"

Her eye was beginning to water and Ashbrook bounded up to bring her the wash cloth. She took it and dabbed at her eye and he crouched down in front of her.
   
Why do you let them do it, Jenny?" he asked her, very softly. "Is it because you think you deserve it?"
   
She stopped laughing. His expression was so direct, so earnest, she had to look away again.

"Not 'they.' This is merely the proper affection due me from my lawful spouse."

"Crowder? He’s here?"

Jenny shook her head no. "In town. I don't believe he followed me."

Ashbrook took her hand in both of his and she felt as if a bolt of electricity passed
between them. He held on tightly and she suddenly felt as if she might cry, but that she knew how much it would hurt.

"He meant to kill me," she whispered. "I should have let him. You would all be safe from his outrages and I would be free."

"Giving no thought to the suffering you would cause to all of us who love you?"

She glanced up at him, sharply, but it was no jest. He was still crouched before her, still holding her hand.

"Keep fighting, Jenny. Don’t let him win."

"That's all very well for you to say, you’re not the one with the smashed face. But if it’s all one to you, I’ll forgo another round with Mr. Crowder for the moment."

"There are better ways to fight," said Ashbrook. "Embrace life in all its magic and fullness. The more you make of your life, the smaller he’ll become until he shrinks away into obscurity." He gripped her hand a little more surely. "Embrace love."

"I am not made for love," she sighed.

"I don’t believe it."

"How would you know?" she snapped.

"Because I know you." He was kneeling before her, now, gazing into her eyes past all her disguises and defenses, reading her soul. "I know you," he repeated. "I love you, Jenny."

"Oh, Thomas, you cannot mean it," she groaned. "Look at me."

"I look at you all the time. You are the face in all my dreams."

"Then you need better dreams. I am no use to anybody, can’t you see that? Not to my son, not to my friends. I poison everything I touch."

"Don’t you ever believe that," he said fiercely.

Jenny gazed into his grey-gold eyes behind the spectacles, framed by unruly wheatstraw hair. Such a rational-seeming face.    

"What can I offer you, Thomas?" she murmured. "I am no great beauty. I’ve no particular gifts as an actress. I am three and thirty years of age. I’m barren and I’ve a madman for a husband into the bargain. Forgive me if I fail to understand what you think you see in me."

"Those are all things that have happened to you," said Thomas. "They’ve nothing to do with who you are. I have never before met anyone with more spirit, more life. You have so much to give, if only you knew it, so much to discover in yourself."

She might almost believe it, he was so certain. In truth, she had never cared to look too deeply within herself, for fear of the emptiness she would find there. But Tom Ashbrook was half-witch, at least he communed with the fairies; his paintings were the proof of that. Perhaps he knew something she did not. Then she noticed he was still kneeling before her, like a swain.

"Oh, do get up," she half-smiled. "Poor Thomas, you are a fool."

"I know," he agreed, climbing up to sit beside her. "I hope you won’t hold it against me. I never meant to bore you with this outburst, especially at such a moment, but I could not help myself. I can’t bear to see you hurt and I can’t bear to see you hurt yourself. But I do love you, Jenny. I can’t stop, but if you find me ridiculous, I swear I will trouble you no more about it."

Jenny had never met anyone more sensible, more competent. She had never met any man with less interest in power or pretensions. She had never known anyone else who could make magic out of the thin air.

"You are the least ridiculous man I have ever known," she told him. "It’s only  . . . well, I never expected to be here. With you. In these circumstances. I’ve never played such a scene. I’m the bawd, not the innocent."

"But still innocent in love, I think." Thomas said gently.

Jenny opened her mouth for another weak, helpless laugh, but she found herself crying, instead. It hurt, but she could not stop. She hid her face in her hand, but she saw Thomas approach her very cautiously on her less-battered right side. His arm came carefully round her shoulders and then she was sobbing against his shirt. The smell of old paint rose from the heat of his body.

"No one’s going to hurt you any more," he murmured into her hair. "I won’t let them."

She could feel his strength in the way he held her, his tenderness in the light, soothing way his fingertips stroked her hair and caressed her cheek beneath her bloated eye. And something more. She had been held by dozens of men; she was a connoisseur of the embrace, but this was different. She had kissed scores of men, men and kisses she had greatly enjoyed. But when she felt Thomas Ashbrook’s lips touch her hair and then her forehead, she was not prepared for the riot inside her—paralysis, awe, dismay, delight. Terror. Disbelief. Complete, abject surrender. Was this what fools called love?

She never even noticed when she stopped crying, rocked gently like a child in Thomas’ arms. When she finally dared to lift her face, he was gazing down at her in quiet wonder, the same way she felt.

"How can you want me?" she whispered. "Your world of dreams is such a beautiful place."

He touched her cheek again, very softly.

"Let me share it with you." He smoothed back a strand of her dark hair. "I’ll press my suit no further tonight," he went on. "You’re tired and you need your rest. But don’t go back to your lodgings, you’ll be safer here."

She nodded and sat up slowly, disengaging from him. But he kept hold of both her hands a moment longer.

"Of course, I shall retire discreetly to the corner," he added, with a grin. Then he kissed each of her hands and Jenny felt another thrill in that long dormant part of her heart.

"Quite right," she agreed. She let her fingers trail gently into his blond-streaked brown hair and stroked his cheek. This man was warm and solid. He was no dream. His smile warmed at her touch. She smiled slowly back.

"When I kiss you, Mr. Ashbrook, I intend to have the full use of my lips." 

 

Top: Scene-Painters’ Room, Booth Theatre, by OB Bunce, 1870
 

CHAPTER 28: Bad Bargains

Kit’s profile belonged on a Greek coin, thought Jenny, with a little burst of pride. How pleased she was to be sitting here beside the handsomest man in Heathpoole in the back room of the Half Seas Over on a boisterous Friday night. She had more reason than usual to be pleased. She’d had her ben two nights before and neither Crowder nor Budge had materialized to claim her profits. Perhaps Kit’s letter had stopped them in their tracks; perhaps they had simply tired of their game. In any case, she was decidedly in a mood to please herself.

Kit’s posture was as languid as ever, but she could see his dark blue eyes moving surreptitiously beneath his long lashes, canvassing the room. They were rather well known here, by now. Perhaps he was looking for someone special.

"Am I keeping you from another engagement, darling?"

His attention snapped back to her on the instant and he grinned.

"I am only trying to guess which fortunate swain shall win your favors tonight, my dear. Although, I confess, after those interminable farces of Warendale’s ben, it mystifies me how you’ve had the stamina to come out at all. There is nothing so guaranteed to plunge one into an ill humor as an eighty-year-old farce."

"Which is why I crave some gaeity," Jenny laughed. "Especially after Violet’s wedding."

"But that was a week ago."

"And I’ve yet to purge the bitter taste of matrimony from my system," Jenny agreed. "This is the best antidote I know of."

"And who shall the fortunate fellow be . . ?" Kit began, his eyes roving again. Jenny stole another glance at him, resplendent in a soft pearl grey jacket over a delicately brocaded sapphire blue waistcoat that hugged his torso like a glove. And then her eyes met another pair drinking in the same vision. A tall youth, long-faced, dark eyes, soft reddish curls, clutching a cap in both hands, standing some little way off. He stepped closer, staring at Kit with unaffected rapture. Nothing subtle or sophisticated about him; indeed, he was rather touchingly artless.

Kit remained cool, pretending not to notice until the fellow was all but kneeling at his feet. Then Kit glanced up to wish him good evening.

"You . . . your servant, sir," the youth faltered. He remembered to give the barest nod of acknowledgement to Jenny, then returned his hungry eyes to Kit. "Might I buy you a glass of something?"

Kit gazed at him a moment longer.

"Have you a name?" His tone was austere, but Jenny could see he was amused by this untutored lad.

"Billy."

Kit glanced aside at Jenny.
   
Billy," he repeated, beaming at her. The boy looked stricken until Kit turned a more genuine smile on him. "Well, Billy, you must call me Kit. Won’t you join us?"

But when he was motioned to their table, Billy’s eyes darted anxiously at Jenny, then dropped to the floor. He was actually blushing.

"Oh dear, you’d better go," Jenny giggled.

"You know I would rather not leave you here, Kennett," Kit told her, stealing a sidelong glance of fascination at his ungainly suitor.

But Jenny shooed them both off. Billy was probably Kit’s age in years, as tall as Kit and slightly huskier in the shoulders, but he looked like a child next to Kit’s elegance. She was surprised when after a few minutes of conversation at the bar, the boy led Kit out into the front taproom and into the street, but she didn’t suppose poor Billy had the means for a room upstairs. 

She had just turned back to her brandy when a masculine voice nearby murmured, "Pardon me."

He was a bluff, square-faced fellow with wavy brown hair that curled beneath his ears, a little mole on one cheek, and a ruffian’s smile.

“Forgive me, Miss, but it grieves me to see so ‘andsome a lady sitting all alone. Would you ever do me the very great honor of allowing me to buy you another of those?” He nodded toward her drink.

“I might be waiting for someone, sir,” said Jenny.

“I should hope you was waiting for me, Mrs. Kennett.”

Jenny’s smile faded. “I see you know my name.”

He looked discomfited for an instant, then dropped his eyes. “Are you not the famous actress, Mrs. Kennett? It’s true, Miss, I confess, I ‘ave seen you before.”

“You are a patron of the theatre, Mister . . ?”

“Marks. Ben Marks, at your service.” He made a gallant little bow, smiling again. “And I appreciates a fine performance, yes.”

Within half an hour, she was allowing Ben Marks to escort her up the interior stairway of the Half Seas Over. And up again; there must be an attic story under the eaves. The dark little corridor wound all the way to the back of the building. Evidently, Mr. Marks enjoyed his privacy. A single dim lantern burned in the middle of the corridor, barely illuminating the last door at the end. Marks paused to open it, offered Jenny another bold grin, and ushered her inside before him. But as she turned her head to speak to him, the door shut firmly behind her, plunging her into complete darkness. Her grasping fingers could not find the doorknob; disoriented, she felt along until she found of a piece of furniture for support, a dressing table, she thought, as something rustled in the dark. A lamp to one side in the little room flamed to life. And by its eerie, flickering light, she found herself gazing into the grim face of Charles Crowder.

Jenny’s hand froze to the edge of the dressing table. There was little more than the foot of a four-poster bed in the narrow room between them. She turned back toward the door, but Crowder strode over to it, blocking her path of retreat.

“What are you doing here?” Jenny commanded her voice to stay firm.
   
“Waiting for you. Of course, everyone in town knows what you are doing here. Strumpet.”

“Then why pursue me?” said Jenny. “Write me off as a bad bargain and have done with me, Charles. I ask nothing from you.”

“But I ask something from you.” Jenny had never once heard Crowder raise his voice, even in the most extreme emotion, and it frightened her now, as always. There was much to be said for a little healthy yelling. “Bad bargain or not, you are my wife, Madame. The mother of my child. Or have you forgotten the son you abandoned in your zeal to drag my reputation and yours into the mud? If you cannot bring yourself to be a wife to me, you might spare a thought for your motherless son.”

“I was never given a chance to mother him!” Jenny cried. “My rights as a mother ended he moment you had him snatched from my arms in my childbed! When did you ever allow me to see him, touch him, speak to him again? For all my pleading, all my heartache . . . ”

“You were ill. Frenzied,” said Crowder. “I couldn’t have the boy upset.”

“Four years!” Jenny spat back. “Four years, I tried every way I could think of to become part of his life, for his sake, certainly not for yours. And yet even the servants were coached to keep me away from him. Don’t you dare even speak to me about mothering!”

“Well. Perhaps you are right,” he said, in that too-calm voice. “A boy requires a mother. That is why I shall have you back.”

“That is where you are mistaken. It’s far too late for that.”

Crowder stared down at her from his cold eyes. “As sorry an excuse as you may be for a wife and mother, Jane, you and I are legally one. I shall not have my name or my son’s tainted with separation or divorce. Or, indeed, abandonment. You are bound to the duties of a wife and mother and I shall see you perform them. I am still your husband, in law.”

“You were never a husband to me!” Jenny might have laughed if she were not so outraged. But Crowder looked astonished.

“I gave you a very grand house, servants to command, your own carriage,” he said. “I fed you and clothed you. I gave you a name with no little dignity attached to it, which you have chosen to throw away with all the rest. I fulfilled my half of our bargain admirably. And what have I received in return? Contempt. Disgrace. It is not to be borne.” He advanced upon her a step or two. “I could chain you in my cellar or have you locked up for lunacy and be well within my rights to do so. I can hound that depraved actor your so fond of to the gallows and ruin that arrogant manager who employs you, I’ve the means and the will to do both, and do not imagine I won’t, if you refuse to be persuaded by reason, or the law, or any kind of moral decency.”

He dared to speak of decency? But he would ruin them all, she knew it, and for what? Anger warred with fear and resignation before Jenny managed to speak again.

“What is there left to take from me?” Her weary voice made it sound like a plea. “You have my marriage portion. All my former property. My fertility. My youth. My son. What more can you possibly want from me?”

“Your obedience,” he hissed.

“You shall never have that!”

The blow caught her completely by surprise, knocking her to her knees. Her eye was blinded; the next one sent her sprawling.

“Then I shall have satisfaction,” came his low voice above her, still hellishly calm. “Better a widower than a cuckold with a whore for a wife.”

She scrabbled away from a blow that glanced off her shoulder, and hunched over into a ball, protecting her head with her arms, as she always had before, waiting for it to end, lulled by the nausea of hopeless fear. But something else sparked beneath the fear, some buried spirit, a tiny voice. Her rage. “Fight back,” that’s what Tory had once told her. She had shown her how. Balance. Surprise.

In the shadows, Jenny got her feet under her. As her husband loomed over her with another drawn fist, she froze for one beat, then lurched away from the blow. With nothing to stop his fist, he stumbled forward, off-balance, and in that instant, she threw herself with all of her strength against his exposed stomach, and heard the air whoosh out of him. His weight as he stumbled against her drove her into the corner of the bed, but she grabbed the bed post and pulled herself up onto the bed before he could right himself. She was aware of his hands grasping at her boots, her skirts, as she scrambled across the bed, but she made it to the other side and lunged for the door. For an instant, she saw the look of absolute astonishment mixed with rage on his face as he struggled to heft his bulk around the bed after her, but she slammed the door shut behind her and stumbled down the corridor. 

   

Even for a mild August night, the stone was cold and damp under Kit’s cheek and the palms of his hands. Everything was cold and damp this close to the waterfront. They were in a narrow, shadowy yard behind a neighboring shop, two high stone walls under a bit of thatch and a low back wall they’d climbed in over. For his part, Kit had never understood this romantic notion of carnality under the stars, instead of the rational comfort of a nice, warm bed. One must be very young to find this sort of thing thrilling.

But Billy’s nervous eagerness touched Kit and flattered him. This might even be the lad’s first attempt at something like this, which flattered him even more. What he lacked in finesse, he certainly made up for in intensity; Kit had rarely been groped with more urgency and desperation, as if the lad expected the hounds of hell to interrupt them at any moment and drag him off. At this moment, however, Kit was rather more aware of the hard cold stone of this wall and the indignity of his position as Billy panted and grunted behind him. But the lad had already served him very well and Kit felt too sluggish with pleasure to think of complaining. Not yet. No need to dampen the lad’s enthusiasm. There was a strangled sort of noise behind him and Kit felt bursts of hot, exhausted breath against the back of his neck.

“It’s all right, love,” Kit murmured, beginning to turn his face aside. “I’ve got all night —”

Pain exploded suddenly across his face as it was slammed into the stone wall. Kit twisted sideways against the wall, doubling over as the pain thundered in his ears, utterly dumbfounded. He sensed the heat of Billy’s presence still hovering above him as his hands rose to cover his face, but he laced his fingers together in a double fist and he burst out of his crouch and caught Billy square under the jaw, sending the lad reeling backwards out of the shadows and crashing into an empty cart.

Kit yanked up his trousers and hobbled after him to press his advantage. But when Billy disentangled himself from the cart and stumbled round to face him again, he stopped, slack-jawed, staring at Kit in the nearly full moonlight. Then he fell to his knees before Kit, and burst into tears. It was only as Kit stared down at him in amazement that he saw the blood, oily black in the moonlight, cascading down his own linen.

“I'm sorry,” Billy whimpered. “I swear I never meant . . . ”
   
“Never meant it? You’ve bloodied my nose!” Kit thundered.

“Why . . . that’s never Mr. Bell?” came an answering voice out of the shadows. Kit saw a figure vault over the low end of the wall and come striding toward them. In the moonlight, he recognized Mr. Delaney by his curly hair. Kit’s head was spinning as the absurdities mounted up and he fumbled at his buttons.

“Holy God, lad, what’s happened to you?” Delaney demanded, thrusting his face nearer to Kit’s. “Are you all right?”

Kit nodded, although the motion made him seasick. He angrily wiped away a fresh torrent of blood with his sleeve.
   
What’s this, then?” Delaney stared down at Billy.

“I didn’t mean it,” Billy wailed.

“I can only assume it was a robbery,” said Kit. “Although someone ought to explain to this puppy that successful thieves rob wealthy travelers with cash, not impoverished actors.”

“Is this true?” growled Delaney, seizing poor Billy by the scruff of the neck. “Mr. Bell is a particular friend of mine.”

“It was never a . . . a robbery,” whimpered Billy, through an outbreak of hiccups. “I was  . . . paid . .  to lure him outside —”

“Paid?” echoed Delaney, glancing up at Kit with a humorous glint in his eye. “Hell, I’d ‘a done it for nothing.”
   
“Lure me?” Kit repeated. “Why?”

“Because of the woman. To make sure you wouldn’t follow —“

“Jenny?” Kit seized Billy’s collar with both hands and dragged him to his feet. “Where is she? What have they done to her?”

“I don’t know . . . ”

“Then you’ll bloody well take me to someone who does!” 

Top: Tavern at St. John’s Gate, Clerkenwel, 1720.