Not even a night of tumult in a mail coach could dampen Jack’s enthusiasm for the new season ahead. When he handed Tory out of the coach from London at the quayside coaching inn in Heathpoole at ten o’clock in the morning, he was afire to get straight to work. Theirs had been a working vacation in London, of course; he’d had to make the rounds of the theatrical taverns to post notices and meet prospective players to fill the places in their company — all the while trying to convince those he interviewed that a stranger unknown to anybody in the profession had the running of a legitimate company. But here in Heathpoole, the real work would begin.
Alphonse met their coach and led them through the damp morning streets, away from the quayside with its fisherfolk and mariners and warehousemen and up into a quieter neighborhood. The crisp air was pungent with salt and brine, and seagulls wheeled and chuckled above the boats in the bay. Tory, who had never seen the town before, slipped her free hand into his as they climbed broad Prospect Avenue. And when they came around a corner to Prospect Square, Jack fell in love.
It was a rectangular box of a theatre made of thick, sand-colored Hamstone with a plain tricorner portico over the box office window, and two doors under bravely arched niches on either side. It had only one row of boxes, inside, eleven in all, half a dozen pit benches below and seven rows of gallery seats, above. But it was outfitted for a proper theatre, with machine room and dressing rooms below the stage, carpentry shop and paint room above and all the correct equipment, if hardly on a grand scale. Best of all, it had no past. It had scarcely ever been used as a playhouse. It was completely new, ready to become whatever he could make of it. A theatre of his own.
"Mr. Ashbrook!" he cried, when they looked into the painting room. "We shall open with A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the most spectacular Dream that’s ever been seen! I’ll want your most fantastical designs."
Ashbrook, looked up from his paints.
"Think what you are saying, Mr. Dance."
"It’s Fairyland, Tom! I want visions the public has never seen before! For once, I’ll want trees that look nothing at all like trees. Let your imagination run riot! I’m relying on you."
Alphonse was already clucking in despair as Jack led Tory out onto the painting bridge to gaze down at the empty, narrow backstage and the modest auditorium, beyond.
"I suppose it looks like a doll’s playhouse, after the Theatres Royal," he apologized to her.
"That’s exactly what I like about it!” She laughed.
Jack was tempted to sleep in the rafters, like Ashbrook, breathing in the rhythms and the promise of the place, but Tory ought to have something more permanent. Alphonse suggested the inn at the opposite corner of Prospect Square for its respectability, but further investigation turned up enticingly inexpensive rooms to let in the home of an elderly widow. They could scarcely find the place, a crooked little street up a craggy hill well away from the center of town, too narrow and rutted for any sort of vehicle. No wonder the price was so reasonable. The house proved to be a tall, narrow cottage of rough-hewn stone, its upper story ringed on three sides by a widow’s walk balcony. But the upstairs offered a sweeping view of the whole of the town and the bay. Tory was charmed speechless and Jack took an upstairs room on the instant. He thought the place looked suspiciously like a smugglers’ watchtower from some bygone era, when the trade was more bold. And his theory was borne out by the name of the street — Moonfleet Way. The perfect place from which to launch his final assault on the theatrical profession. He would harry a living out of the Heathpoole Playhouse or die trying. It was his last hope.
Christopher Bell was enjoying his morning walk along the quayside to call for the post. The duties of a stage manager kept him busy day and night and he found it rather invigorating. Jack flattered him that he was too big a draw to forfeit acting altogether, but he had persuaded Jack to let him retain his offstage position as well as the season got under way. He did all he could beforehand to see that every piece started off like clockwork, then entrusted Amos, the prop man and prompter, to keep an eye on things when he had to pop onstage. Not so difficult as all that.
And Jack had an eye for finding competent people, as odd as they might seem at first glance. Look at Ashbrook; his Fairyland scenes for the Dream were the sensation of Heathpoole, and their season only a fortnight along. They had repeated the Dream in their second week and some young gentleman tradesman had already bespoken a third performance. The new actors Jack had picked up in London were well-versed in utility; the eccentric comedian could play drama, the heavy man, Mr. Foyle, farce. The new carpenter and door-keepers knew what they were about. And Jack had found a local tailor’s widow with two capable daughters for a wardrobe-keeper. Indeed, there were so many mariners' widows in the neighborhood, Jack had designated their opening night a benefit for the widows of the town, ensuring a crowded house. And business had been respectable ever since. Kit knew Jack was not taking any salary until the place was more firmly on its feet, to see everyone paid, while Belair retained enough of the profits to pay the rent. A very delicate balancing act, to be sure, even for an acrobat like Jack.
Acrobatic, too, was the feat of stretching a company of a dozen to fill a pageant like the Dream. Jack went on for Oberon with Belair as Puck. He wanted Tory for Titania, whom he conceived less an ethereal fairy than a lusty earth goddess. But when she balked, he put her in for the Amazon Queen, partnered by Kit’s King Theseus, with Jenny in for Titania, to fine effect. Owen and Bishop were the lovesick Athenian maidens. Stephen Fairweather, back from situating his parents in Italy, and Harding doubled as their swains and the lesser rustics. It seemed odd to Kit that Harding had returned at all, for he had made no secret of his dislike for Jack from Kelsingham on. But Kit supposed a fellow of Harding’s limited skills was in no position to turn down a guarantee of employment.
Kit tipped his hat to a pair of giggling shopgirls who recognized him as Captain Starhawke, a part he now knew he would never live down. But it was just the sort of thing to draw a house in a place like Heathpoole. Further on, by the water, a muscular oarsman was just climbing out of a boat ferrying cargo to a ship out in the bay. Kit recognized Mr. Delaney by the tight curls of his dark hair and the slightly dusky cast to his complexion, to say nothing of his powerful build. Kit had met him while out with Jenny one night at the Half Seas Over; they’d had a merry time two nights ago. Kit was allowing his gaze to slide past the fellow with his usual impassive circumspection, when Delaney saw him and grinned and waved. Kit was so accustomed to being ignored in the street in these circumstances, he almost forgot to tip his hat again and smile in response. Was it the unpredictable seafaring life that made fellows shed their usual inhibitions? What a jolly place this was turning out to be.
His cheerful mood carried him all the way into the post office at the end of the quay, where Mrs. Moran greeted him as “Dearie,” and handed over the playhouse post. It continued as he glanced over two or three personal letters for members of the company and a great deal more bills, invoices and inquiries for Jack. His smile only began to fade when he noticed a letter addressed to himself. The return was directed to the London address of one Jasper Budge, Esq., Attorney at Law.
"Charles Crowder is threatening to bring a crim-con suit against Kit," Jack announced, as soon as Jenny and Tory answered his summons to his office.
"Against Kit?" Jenny gaped.
"What’s a crim-con suit?" asked Tory.
"It means ‘criminal conversation'," said Jack. "It’s a way for a cuckolded husband to demand financial satisfaction from his wife’s lover."
"Her lover?" Tory echoed, glancing at Kit. Then she laughed. "Why, that should be easy enough to disprove."
"Exactly so," murmured Kit.
"You’ll do no such thing!" cried Jenny.
"Rusty, Kit cannot waltz into a court of law and identify himself as a . . . a . . . forgive, me, Kit—"
"A sodomite," Kit filled in helpfully.
”He could be sentenced to two years hard labor and the public pillory," Jack went on. "On the books, it's still a capital offense."
"But . . . simply because . . ?" Tory was literally speechless.
"Relations between men are a crime," said Jack. "True, such laws are rarely enforced any more, but a judge could scarcely overlook such a confession submitted as evidence in his own court."
"How can it be a crime, like thievery or murder?" Tory demanded. "No one is hurt by it."
"Taking a lover to bed is not a crime," said Jack. "But there are a great many laws against doing so with the wrong person."
"The wrong age," suggested Kit, ticking them off on his elegant fingers. "The wrong color. The wrong class. The wrong marital status, of course. And the wrong gender."
"Well, but if two people are of age and in agreement, what business is it of the law if they go to bed?" Tory sputtered.
"Dear God, I believe I am in love!" cried Kit, beaming at Tory. "I thought such innocence had gone the way of the Dodo. Wherever have you been keeping yourself, dear, on the moon?"
"Consider, she did grow up in America," said Jenny.
"Ah, that explains all, no doubt," Kit agreed. "Here in the civilized world, Tory, the law may do whatever it pleases to protect public morals from degenerates like myself. Well," he went on, more crisply, "I have never made a secret of what I am and I shall not begin now. Crowder has no case and I shall say so in court."
"You shall not endanger yourself on my behalf," Jenny declared. "Besides, I am sure Mr. Crowder is bluffing. He would never bring such a suit to trial, the scandal would be too mortifying. Salacious details of crim-con cases are printed every day in the public press. Participants on both sides are the laughingstocks of London. Kean was brought so low when he was named in such a suit, he had to tour America for a year before his public would forgive him. King George himself has never recovered his reputation after trying to divorce his wife." She drew a breath and shook her head. "No, Mr. Crowder would never, ever expose himself, much less his son, to that sort of public ridicule."
"Then what does he want?" Tory asked.
"My surrender," Jenny replied bitterly. "You see how cleverly he’s arranged it. He must know that Kit can never contest the suit in open court. So he hopes to threaten him into a settlement out of court. Actors are not rich. Mr. Crowder could demand more in damages at a single stroke than Kit could earn in years. Kit could be ruined, because he’s my friend. If Jack attempted to cover the damages out of our profits, the company would be ruined. All of us out on the street again. Because of me." She shook her head. "I cannot let it happen. He knows I have no choice. I must go back to him."
"As your employer, I absolutely forbid it," said Jack. "We have a contract. Besides, legal matters take forever. By the time he’s pushed his ridiculous suit to the damages phase, we’ll be long gone."
"He found me here," Jenny reminded him.
"Yes, and I wonder how?" Kit frowned.
"It doesn’t matter. He will always find me. I can’t continue to put you all at risk."
The despair in Jenny’s voice alarmed Tory more than anything else, this bold, independent woman who had dared to live as she pleased.
"Then fight back!" Tory exclaimed. "Threaten to expose his brutality in court, that’s something he wouldn’t want to read in the press. Sue him for infidelity. Perhaps he has a mistress hidden away."
"Mr. Crowder?" Jenny gaped. "He could scarcely be persuaded to bed his wife to get a son. It’s not the sort of activity he engages in for pleasure, I promise you."
"Tory has the right idea," said Kit thoughtfully. "But the wrong approach. Allow me to force his hand, Jenny. I shall simply write back and say I’ll be happy to meet him in court."
"Kit, you can’t . . . "
"In fact, I shall have Mr. Belair’s solicitor friend send it for me," Kit went on, glancing at Jack.
Jack nodded. Alphonse's friend, Mr. Jepson, had put him in touch with a solicitor here in Heathpoole, to see to the fine points of their lease.
"Might as well make it look official," Kit continued. "I shall simply explain to Mr. Crowder that I’m prepared to stand up in court to testify under oath that I have never committed adultery with any woman — and why."
"Only don’t write why in the letter," said Jack. "Don’t incriminate yourself on paper. Crowder must know why, or he wouldn’t have chosen you to threaten."
"And suppose he agrees?" Jenny demanded, with another agitated glance at Kit.
"He won’t, if he’s as terrified of ridicule as you say," said Jack.
Kit was nodding now too. "How will it reflect on his honor, to say nothing of his prowess, if he tries to declare in court he’s been cuckolded by a sodomite?" He grinned at Jenny. "You know what men are."
Jenny’s furrowed expression eased by a fraction. "He would sooner die! God’s blue blood, it might work at that!"
No one wanted to consider the consequences if it did not.
Top: Newspaper caricature of a crim-con trial, 1806
Above right: Georgian Theatre, Richmond, 1788. (Restored 2003)
Above left: Robert Cruickshank, Edmund Kean … The consequences of crim-con … 1825
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