CHAPTER 37: Acts of Foolishness

 

"I should think the gas, Mr. Belair."

Alphonse blinked up from his account book, not having seen what his eyes had turned there to find, and cursed himself for his inattention.

This was all Jack's fault. As usual. Six days gone, and not a word from London, not one single note. Poor Victoria was half out of her mind with worry; he could see how valiantly she struggled in company to pretend that everything was well. He, himself, was not so gifted an actor. If Jack were here now, he would bear the full weight of Alphonse's opinions. Indeed, it should take very little persuasion for Alphonse to board the next coach for London and deliver that opinion in person.

"Belair?"

Alphonse's happy vision of boxing Jack's ears like a schoolboy evaporated; in its place, he saw the handsome face of Christopher Bell gazing at him expectantly from the other side of the manager's desk.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bell," said Alphonse. "The gas bill, you said?"

"That is the most pressing, yes," said Kit, consulting his own notes. The morning's mail sat open between them, with its usual solicitations and demands. "We can eke out our other supplies, for now," Kit went on. "We've pomade and cork and color enough for one more performance of Pizarro, if we are stingy about it. Jenny has the ladies coming in early on play nights to repair dresses, to save on a seamstress."

Alphonse glanced again at his account book. "Thread?" he asked.

"Kindly donated by Mr. Humbolt," said Kit.

Alphonse nodded. Small wonder that Kit was always dressed so beautifully, since Humbolt, the tailor two streets over with a shop on the town square, traded the lad lodgings in return for the fashionable young player sporting his clothing about the town. Alphonse admired the lad's entrepreneurship, to say nothing of his sense of economy. One would never think, to look at him, how sensible he was.

"But we must have gaslight, if we are not to play in the dark," Kit concluded. He glanced up again at Alphonse. "I've a ben coming up tomorrow. We can pay it out of that."

"Nonsense, Kit," said Alphonse crisply. "That is your money and you shall need it . . . " He stopped himself saying after the company disbands, but they both heard it hovering there, unspoken, just the same.

"We'll manage," Alphonse said instead, and fished the bill out of the pile.

The backstage at the Kelsingham Playhouse was small enough that Alphonse heard the bustle of activity in the next room before the soft knocking at the door. Then Thomas Ashbrook put in his head.

"A word, Mr. Belair, if I might?"

"Of course."

The door opened wider and Alphonse saw Jenny Kennett out in the passage behind Ashbrook. "Oh, you're here too, darling. Good," she said to Kit as they came in.

Kit stood aside, nearly flattening himself against the wall in the small office, as Tom unfolded a section of printed paper and laid it on the desk before Alphonse.

"We chanced upon this in the Blue Fox this morning," said Tom. "Some traveler must have left it behind in the coffee room."

"One of the London dailies," Jenny added, for Kit's benefit. "It's a few days out of date by now."
    
The lower column, there," Tom pointed it out for Alphonse. "The drama review."

Alphonse seized the paper with both hands, scanning quickly down through the small, densely-packed printed lines.

"'A more unfortunate choice for Prince Hal could not be imagined,'" he read aloud. "'Mr. Dance blusters when he ought to be boisterous, and minces when he's meant to show nobility . . . '" Alphonse read on silently through a few more scathing comments before arriving at the conclusion. "'For reasons mysterious to this observer, to say nothing of the theatre-going population of the Metropolis, the current lessee of Drury Lane, Mr. Price, of America, has dragged Mr. Dance out of the provinces for this particular role, to whence Mr. Dance ought to return in all haste.'"

No one said anything for a long, uneasy moment.

"I have never, ever known Jack to mince," Kit broke in at last.

"Of course not!" Jenny agreed. "What on earth could be wrong?"

They all looked at Alphonse, as if expecting him to make sense of it for them. But Alphonse could only shake his head slowly, eyes narrowed, considering.

"He did seem . . . reluctant . . . to go, at first," Tom said carefully, echoing Alphonse's most dire thoughts. "And some people, it's said, fear success above all things."

Alphonse frowned. "He knows how much is at stake."

Tom inclined his head with a meaningful glance, as if that proved all. And Alphonse wondered if it could be possible. Might Jack have in some way sabotaged his opportunity in London because the pressure was too great? But it seemed incredible. He had never known Jack to run from a fight before. More often than not, Alphonse had to personally restrain Jack from reckless confrontations.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Jenny exclaimed. "None of us has ever seen Jack shirk his responsibilities, let alone give a bad performance! Anyway, Tory knows him better than anyone. Perhaps she can explain —"

"No," said Alphonse. "We must not show this to Victoria. It will only upset her more."

"But she must see it!" Jenny cried. "Here the poor girl is pining for any sort of news. It would be beyond cruel to withhold this from her."

But Alphonse knew better than anyone what utter foolhardiness both Victoria and Jack were capable of, if either thought the other was in any sort of trouble. Neither could be trusted to act sensibly where the other was concerned, and if Alphonse were going to find out the truth of the matter, he would need Victoria safe here in Kelsingham with the others.

"It would be cruel to burden her with more worries based on a single notice in an old paper," Alphonse told them. "Anything might have occurred since this was published. Jack was engaged for three nights. Had he been turned off after his debut, would he not be back by now?"

There were grudging nods all around, and Alphonse hurried on, as eager to convince himself as the others. "We now know for a fact that Jack is arrived in London, and evidently fulfilling his contract. You may say as much to Victoria, Mrs. Kennett; say you overheard travelers in the Blue Fox discussing the production. You needn't say an opinion was delivered on Jack's performance, only that he was in it. That should ease her mind somewhat."

Jenny still looked doubtful, so Alphonse added, "Anything more detailed, I'm afraid, will only result in acts of foolishness."

After Jenny reluctantly agreed, and she and Tom had left the office, Alphonse found Kit still lounging against the wall, gazing at him in a cool manner.

"Do I detect an act of foolishness brewing?"

"On the contrary, I have in mind a small, sensible act that may prevent a great load of foolishness in the making," said Alphonse.

Kit peered at him. "You don't seriously believe Jack is trying to fail?"

"I do not know what to believe. Nor will I, until I find out what the facts of the matter are." By now, Alphonse was on his feet as well, sifting through the papers on his desk. He glanced up again at Kit. "I may entrust the operation of the playhouse to you for a day or two?"

"Yes, of course," said Kit, straightening up.

"I rely on you and Mr. Ashbrook to look after the ladies," Alphonse went on.  Nothing had been heard from Crowder since Heathpoole, and the company were surrounded by a network of friends, landlords, publicans and admirers in Kelsingham. Still . . . "And, as a particular favor to me, Kit, I beg you to stay close to Victoria. She will need the support of all of her friends until I can sort this out."

Kit nodded. "How long do you expect to be away?"

"I shall go by mail this evening and be in London by morning. It is not impossible that I might be back here again the following morning."

It should not take him longer than a day, Alphonse told himself, to find out what game Jack was playing at.


 

Jenny stood adjusting her bonnet at the little glass above the bureau in the parlor of the lodgings she was sharing with Tory. She had to stoop a bit to get the correct view, and her cream and indigo-striped walking dress was not reflected at all in the small glass. Tory was waiting by the door, in her simplest dress, a shawl thrown loosely over her shoulders. It seemed silly to her that Jenny must spend so much effort over an outfit that would be entirely shed within half an hour, but she supposed the proprieties must be observed.

"I wish we didn't have to do all this sneaking about," said Jenny. "I feel like a criminal."

"Love is not yet a crime," said Tory.

"It is if you happen to be inconveniently married to someone else, my dear" Jenny replied, with a tart glance in her direction.

"Fortunately, love does not depend on marriage," Tory pointed out.

"Or vice-versa," Jenny agreed, with a final pat, before she turned again to Tory. "And yet, I believe a marriage to Tom . . . if only it were possible . . . "

Every night that Jack had been gone, Tory had walked Jenny down the back stairs to the tradesman's entrance, where Tom was waiting to escort her back to his room at the playhouse. Early the following morning, before the housemaid was astir, Tory went down again to unlatch the door when Tom brought Jenny back. Since it was dark both ways, they could avoid being seen, and Jenny and Tory made a point of coming in together in the evening and going out together in the morning, so as not to scandalize their landlady. For herself, Tory didn't mind about the late nights and early mornings; she didn't sleep much, anyway, without Jack.

"Well, you have the next best," Tory tried to reassure her.  "And Tom doesn't mind, does he?"

Jenny smiled a little. "Tom is a saint. Claims it makes no odds to him, that he couldn't love me any more —" she stopped, embarrassed, but her mouth broadened into a self-mocking grin when she saw Tory's expression. "Oh, aye, I know, a fool in love, that's me. Even though it's utterly hopeless."

"Only the marriage part," Tory said gently.

"Yes. You're right," Jenny nodded, and briskly plucked up her wrap. "And yet, I can't help but dream how wonderful it would be did we not have to go about in shame and secrecy. In the eyes of the world, we would be adulterers, monsters. It's so unfair to Tom, who is guilty of nothing more than poor taste."

"I doubt if he sees it that way." Tory smiled.

"Still, it would give me so much joy to . . . to make an honest man of him," Jenny said, with a wry grin of her own. "To proclaim our love to the world! As you have done."

Tory did not dare to say anything to this. But she felt more a fraud than ever walking Jenny downstairs. Nothing was honest about her relationship with Jack, except their love. It had always been enough before. But now, in this new world, with its rules and temptations . . ? Had something changed? Was that why Jack hadn't written her?

When they unlatched the tradesman door, they were surprised to find Kit waiting outside in the shadows with Tom.

"I was just off home to Humbolt's, and I thought to inflict my company on poor Ashbrook here, who was too polite to turn me off," Kit greeted them cheerfully.

"Mr. Bell needed a shield to get past the admirers lurking outside the playhouse," said Tom. "I only thought to avoid a riot."

Kit was becoming so popular in Kelsingham, Tory knew, that there was generally a devotee or two outside the playhouse even on nights like this, when there was no performance. They were all hopeful that his ben tomorrow night, in Lure of the Indies, would fill the house.

Tom gave an arm to Jenny, who glided up against him for a brief, sweet, clandestine kiss before turning back with a wave of farewell. 

"Off you go, then. Don't spare another thought for me," Kit teased as they set off down the back street together. "Left to fend for myself again. Unless . . . "

He turned to Tory, gazing at her speculatively. "I don't suppose you'd care to come out for a drink with me, Mrs. Lightfoot?"

"Why, Mr. Bell, you flatter me," Tory said, with the same mock formality. "A tedious . . . married lady like me?"

"Oh, come, Tory, one little glass of cheer over at the Arms. Don't say you couldn't use it."

In truth, Tory was in no hurry to go back up to her empty room.

"It's early yet," Kit went on. "I'll have you back here in half an hour. Only go back through the house and meet me out front, so I may escort you properly. I've no desire to bundle you off down the alley like a sack of laundry."

 

A chill autumn breeze had come in off the river, driving moderate custom into the Somerset Arms. Tory pulled her shawl a little closer as the pot boy brought them their glasses of port, sparkling ruby in the lamp light. She and Kit clinked glasses and sipped, and she began to feel warmer.

As they chatted about theatrical matters, she began to wonder if Kit were merely being charitable. Alphonse had gone to Bristol overnight on some emergency of Mr. Jepson's, he said, and with Jenny off as usual with Tom, perhaps Kit thought she was lonely. Well, he was correct enough on that score. Or perhaps he just thought she needed a drink; he was correct about that as well.

Lifting her glass again, she had the opportunity to steal a covert glance at her companion. True, the line of his nose was more crooked than it had been, but the imperfection somehow made his beautiful face and the deep marine blue of his eyes all the more arresting. His friend in Heathpoole, Mr. Delaney, had done an admirable job.

"This was very sweet of you, Kit," she said, taking another sip. "But I can't believe you could find no better companions."

"Ah, you make a veiled reference to my notorious past," Kit replied. "Well, my ill repute is entirely deserved, I promise you. But that chapter of my life is as dead and buried as ancient Babylon."

"Is it?"

"Aye," Kit nodded. "For one thing, my present employers are such taskmasters, the business of the playhouse consumes me. I've scarcely a moment to myself. And of course, there is Mr. Delaney to consider —"

He stopped abruptly, as if surprised to hear these words uttered aloud. But it was too late to take them back, and Tory seized upon them with relish.

"He's here?" she prompted him. "In Kelsingham?"

Kit dropped his eyes like a coquette. "Bristol," he murmured.

Tory peered at him. "Hellfire, Kit, I believe you're blushing."

"I assure you, it's only the wine," he rallied.

"You've scarcely touched your glass."

"Aye, clearly I haven't had enough!" Kit reached for his glass again, but not before Tory glimpsed one of his disarmingly candid grins that were so rare, yet so endearing.

But whatever Kit said next was lost to Tory as her gaze floated out around the bustling room. Over near the door, she noticed a fair-haired young gentleman rise from a table and take his leave of his fellows. There was nothing so remarkable about him — a trim figure in a blue tailcoat, a grey topper with a dark blue band — but a certain timbre of voice and familiarity of gesture snagged at her memory for an instant.

And suddenly, Tory felt as if she were on a tilting ship's deck in heavy seas, the waves curling above, the stars below, like one of Tom's paintings. And even though her rational mind told her it simply could not be, not here in Kelsingham, that other inner voice, the irrational one that had been nagging her for days, leapt in with a scolding: this was how close the past could be. It could swamp you in a heartbeat.

The fellow put on his hat and glided out into the night. She was not mistaken.     

Matty Forrester. 

Top: London newspaper, 1821

Above: Regency era tavern. Source unknown