CHAPTER 38: Thwarted Plans

"This is a Theatre Royal, Mr. Belair, not a lodging house. I'm afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination to inquire into the living arrangements of my company."

Alphonse was in no humor to have his plans so roundly thwarted, especially after a long and sleepless night in the bone-rattling mail coach to London. But he would not show discomposure to this gentleman, who had been decent enough to receive him this morning, in the handsomely appointed manager's office at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

"Of course you do not, Mr. Wallack" Alphonse agreed. "It should grieve me to suggest such a thing, and I have no wish to take up too much of your valuable time." Indeed, he had found the manager in an attitude Alphonse found all too familiar, poring over a stack of bills and receipts on his desk with a dire expression.

"But I too have matters of a theatrical nature to take up with my business partner, Mr. Dance," Alphonse went on, "and I seem to have mistaken his address here in Town. I only thought that perhaps you or one of your people might be able to redirect me."

Earlier this morning, when Alphonse had at last been liberated from that torture device on wheels, he had gone directly to Mr. Jepson's London office to enquire after the address where Jack was staying. But the agent had apologized that Jack never turned up for the key to the private lodgings Jepson had offered him. Now, at Drury Lane, they had no address for him either.

"I assure you, Mr. Belair," said James Wallack, making, Alphonse thought, a more concerted effort at civility this time,  "I should not hesitate to provide the information you seek, if only it was in my power." With another stray glance at his papers, the manager added, "In particular if there was the smallest chance you might hie Mr. Dance back to, er . . . "

"Kelsingham."

"Ah, yes, Kelsingham, without delay. Meaning no offense to your associate," Wallack added grudgingly.

Alphonse gave a small nod, considering. "Is he not required to come to the theatre to pick up his parts and hand off his properties and wardrobe to the property-man?"

"Why, Mr. Belair, so he did on his first day here, but as he's only in the one part, all the rest is accounted for. You don't imagine I would try him in a second part, do you? No, all he need do now is show up on play nights, however fervently I might wish that he would not."

"I am newly arrived in Town," Alphonse said carefully. "Do you tell me that Mr. Dance's playing is not a success?"

Wallack gazed at Alphonse with his dark, vivid eyes, absently ran a hand through the springy curls in retreat  above his forehead, just beginning to gray at the temples. "He's the greatest disaster to hit Old Drury since the fire of Oh-nine." The manager sighed.  "When his second performance was announced on the night of his debut, the audience howled in outrage. None but jeerers and mockers were in attendance when next he went on. Our Falstaff is quite put out about it."

Alphonse shook his head. "But if all this is so, why on earth do you retain him?"

"Alas, I am only the acting manager. My orders come from on high — Mr.  Price, the new manger. From America,"  Wallack added, with a pregnant look. "Dance is engaged for three performances, and I am helpless to intervene. His final performance as Prince Hal shall be in two nights' time, and you are welcome to come back then, Mr. Belair. At that time, Mr. Price's Faustian bargain shall be concluded — at which point it will be my very great pleasure to pay the fellow off and have done with him!"

Outside again in Brydges Street, amid the hawkers and mongers and clattering carriages, Alphonse tried to get his thoughts in order. First, he must return to Mr. Jepson's agent and humbly beg the key to the empty lodgings. Next, he must compose a letter to Kit and think of something reassuring to tell them all whilst explaining why he was delayed for two more days — although he must refrain from alarming Victoria any further with the prevailing opinion of Jack Dance. Then he must try to find where in all this congested metropolis Jack was hiding himself. If some sort of mistake had been made, Alphonse would ferret out the truth.



 

"There is obviously some mistake." It was not a question. Charles Crowder gazed implacably at his employee over the top of the Bristol Mercury morning edition.

"No mistake, sir, although I wish I could say there was," Budge replied.

The man was disheveled, having just come to Crowder's private office in the Crowder Mills suite above Queen Square with the morning post and a baleful expression. With an inward sigh, Crowder left off scanning through the crime report from London and turned his attention to his solicitor.

"The plain fact is, sir, your finances are somewhat in disarray," said Budge. "If I may say so, revenge is proving more costly than you might have thought. Bribing that Price fellow to put Dance on the boards in London, and the ruinous investment in that dark playhouse in Heathpoole, have begun to chip away at the principal."

"We understood the risks when we began," Crowder reminded him, with icy calm. "You yourself approved the balance sheets as we laid them out in this very office."

"I did indeed," Budge hastened to agree. "But that balance has begun to shift." He withdrew an opened envelope from the pile he had deposited on top of Crowder's desk. "I have received this note from the foreman of your woolen factory in Leeds."

Crowder frowned at the paper. "And?"

"It's the workers. They are staging a protest."

Crowder's eyes narrowed even further. "Do you mean an insurrection? Some latent outbreak of Ludditism? Machinery-breaking is a capitol offense. Have him call in the constables!"

"No, sir, it has not come to that, not yet," said Budge. "But the foreman says they are clamoring for higher wages and better conditions."

"Why trouble me with such affairs? What do I pay the fellow for?" Crowder was nearing the end of his patience with these petty matters. "Tell him to let the troublemakers go; we'll see how clamorous they are once their leaders find themselves without a situation. Let 'em all go, for all I care. Are there not laborers enough in Leeds? They breed like rabbits."
    
"Indeed, there is scarcely any family in the town without a relation or two already employed in the mills," said Budge, consulting his damned letter again. "Few more are likely to apply until this matter is resolved."

"I'll not countenance rebellion." Crowder did not know how to speak more plainly. "If they won't work, find people who will. There are other towns; we'll have 'em driven in, if we must."

"At yet more expense," sighed Budge, shaking his head in a way Crowder suddenly found unbearably irritating.

"You would handle things differently, I suppose?" Crowder could scarcely keep the sneer out of his voice.

But instead of cringing or retreating, Budge dared to stand there gazing at him. "Mr. Crowder, you employ me to look after your affairs. Speaking as your solicitor, I only wonder at the cost of this campaign on which you are embarked. All of this time and effort, to say nothing of the expense," the fellow went on earnestly. "Can your wife possibly be worth it?"

Crowder stared at him in surprise. "My wife? I care nothing at all for the baggage! But she cannot be allowed to defy me. She must learn, they all must learn that defiance has its consequences."



 

"If you are going to linger in the playhouse after hours, Mrs. Kennett, you must accept the consequences."

Tom Ashbrook's mouth hovered near her earlobe, and Jenny permitted herself to close her eyes for an instant, imagine herself melting like butter into the familiar shape and addictive warmth of his body standing so close behind her. His one arm encircled her waist, the other draped loosely before her shoulders, while his mouth worked with maddening slowness down to the nape of her neck. There was nothing hurried about Tom. Nor was she in any hurry to move beyond the shadowy wings backstage and into the light thrown out of the open door to the manager's office, where Kit was still bustling about.

Indeed, it was all Jenny could do not to turn around in Tom's embrace, meet his insinuating lips with her own, and haul him up to the paint room right then and there. But tonight had been Kit's ben, and they were obliged to join the others for the celebration at the Blue Fox after. Poor Kit had been working overtime, manfully trying to fulfill all his obligations as both acting manager and star player on this festive night. In lieu of both Jack and Alphonse, it was now Kit's responsibility to count and secure the proceeds, and shut up the office for the night. The very least she and Tom could do was contain themselves for another hour and help him enjoy the rewards after such a long, exhausting day.

Tom had even changed out of his paint smock for the occasion, dressed now in what passed for evening clothes in his limited wardrobe. But for this moment, while they still lingered in the shadows at the edge of the curtain, out of the others' view, Jenny was content to let Tom's strong arms and roving mouth have their way with her another moment more. Time enough to reap her own rewards later.

"Oh, aye, don't let me interrupt anything!"

Tory tipped them both a saucy glance as she passed them on her way out of the dressing room, but Jenny still felt guilty to be caught canoodling with Tom like some sort of dewy ingenue. Although not guilty enough to step out of his reach.

"Well we must amuse ourselves somehow," said Jenny. "Kit is taking an age."

Tory peered into the office and shook her head. "Well, he'd better get outside soon, or his partisans will riot."

They had played Lure of the Indies for Kit's ben, of course, heavily promoted in nearby Bristol and Bath, so there were even more than the usual number of admirers now haunting the stage door.

"Well then, in the interest of preserving the peace, I suppose I ought to see if I can be of any assistance.” Tom sighed, and reluctantly let Jenny go. "Ladies, do us the favor of moving into the light where we can see you, to inspire us to speed," he added, as he went into the office. It was more than empty gallantries, Jenny knew; privately, Tom had told her that first Jack, then Alphonse had instructed Kit and himself to never allow Tory or herself to go about unescorted, not even in the privacy of the playhouse.

Typical male overprecaution, Jenny supposed, although she could not stop the renegade thought that if Jack were so concerned for Tory's well-being, why did he not write to her? But she duly laced her arm through Tory's, and, exchanging a sardonic grin, they moved into the light.

A quarter of an hour later, the four of them stepped out the playhouse door and into an eddy of a dozen or so of Kit's admirers. Tom took Jenny's arm and drew her to the periphery, but not before she saw Kit turn to them with a distinctly boyish grin of apology before turning again to accept the compliments of the little crowd awaiting him.

Jenny felt a flush of pride to see him meeting it all with such aplomb, despite his new responsibilities, and the headiness of his ben, to say nothing of the distraction of that stout-hearted nautical fellow, Delaney, who had popped down from Bristol for the occasion. Jenny noticed him now, standing discreetly at the edge of the little circle, watching Kit with a small, fond smile that warmed his dark eyes. It made her smile in turn to see it. She had seen every sort of hungry, covetous look cast at Kit over time by his gentleman admirers, but there was something different about Mr. Delaney's expression, something calmer and yet richer.

Under the circumstances, Kit might well be forgiven neglecting his duties. She was about to say so to Tory, when she noticed Tory was no longer attached to their group. Looking about, Jenny saw that Tory had retreated into the deeper shadows at the far end of the playhouse with a fair-haired, rather attractive gentleman she did not recognize. Evidently, Kit was not the only one who'd attracted an admiring playgoer tonight, Jenny supposed. Oh well, Tory would be along directly, and Jenny let Tom steer her toward the Blue Fox.

 

 

Tory had almost been able to convince herself that she'd merely dreamed the image of Matty Forrester she thought she'd seen last night at the Somerset Arms — surely it had only been a product of her overactive imagination and overtired brain — until he came reeling out of the shadows at her as she emerged out of the playhouse with the others. The sight of him after all this time was so disorienting, she froze to the spot as Tom and Jenny and Kit moved ahead.

Indeed, time itself seemed to freeze as well; she saw him tip his top hat to her, registered the familiar smile and sky blue eyes that had once caused such confusion in the core of her being. Once. A thousand lifetimes ago. His reddish golden hair was a bit more barbered than it had been, his handsome face a bit fuller around the cheeks and chin, the cut of his clothing far more expensive. But there was no mistaking Matty Forrester. The boy to whom her foolish younger self had once attached all of her romantic dreams. The man Jack foolishly considered his rival. The ferocious warrior who had been their compañero in the pirate trade.

Tory watched his lips move, understood that he was speaking to her, but all she could hear was a roar like the sea in her ears. Like a sleepwalker in a dream, she took his proffered arm and steered him back into the shadows in the opposite direction from the Blue Fox. Her only thought was to head him off, keep him away from her friends, her new life, before this most unwelcome ghost from her past could destroy everything she loved.

" . . . stopping at the Somerset Arms on my way back to my ship in Bristol," he was saying to her now, as her head began to clear. Her feet were still stepping along the roadside, the stars were still overhead, although somewhat obscured by a damp haze moving in from the river. The familiar buildings of Kelsingham still stood where they ought to be.

"I thought a night at the theatre would pass the time," Matty went on. "What a surprise to find 'Mrs. Lightfoot' in the bill. As soon as you came onstage and spoke, I knew it must be you!"

He beamed at her expectantly, and it occurred to Tory she had not yet spoken. Or if she had, it could only have been gibberish.

"And what a surprise you are, Mr. Forrester," she said, mustering every atom of wit and decorum she possessed. For all anyone knew, they were simply old acquaintances meeting again unexpectedly after a span of time. She must maintain that fiction, somehow neutralize Matty's dangerous presence here in the civilized world. "It has been a long time." She engineered a noncommittal smile.

"It has." He smiled back.  "Would it be terribly improper for us to find some place to talk? I would be honored to buy you dinner."

"Why . . . how . . . pleasant. But may I suggest the Somerset Arms," Tory went on, trying not to literally drag him away. "The Blue Fox is full of show folk tonight."

In the event, she could not eat, and ordered only brandy. Matty politely ordered the same.

"This is very handsome of you, ah, Mr. Forrester," Tory said, when the wine came. She'd only just stopped herself calling him by his Spanish name. Mateo.

"It's Captain Forrester, actually," he told her, with a modest grin. "I command a trading ship out of New York. We have business interests in Bristol."

"Well, I'm pleased to see you so prosperous," she replied.

"It’s my father's company, of course," Matty added with a glint of disarming candor. "But she is a beautiful ship. Hotspur, she's called a fleet little thing; you'd like her, Tory!"

He quickly took a sip of his wine, as if embarrassed to be caught using such a familiar name. Tory congratulated him on his good fortune, but all the while she was watching him play the gallant and wondering why he had sought her out and what he wanted of her. She could not believe his sudden reappearance in her life was sheer, blind chance.

"You too have done well for yourself," he said now, as wary as she of making any mention, however oblique, of the last time they had met, on board a pirate ship in the Indies running for her life. Then his expression sobered slightly, and he added softly, "It's too bad about Danzador."

"What about him?" Tory said, alarmed.

Matty looked surprised. "Well but, " he said in the same low voice, "the last anyone saw of him . . . " The last any of them had seen of Jack he was being marooned on a deserted islet, so ill with fever no one expected him to survive. "I only assumed . . . "

"But Jack is alive and very well," Tory said, too eagerly. And instantly regretted it; if Matty thought Jack was dead, Jack could have nothing to fear from Matty's dangerous presence, whatever was behind it. But it was too late now. "We came to England together," she went on. "We are players now."

"Why . . .  that is excellent news." Matty smiled. "Did I not recognize him onstage tonight?"

"No, indeed, he wasn't there. He is engaged to play in London this week." Tory found herself trying to create an image of Jack large and important enough to escape the taint of their past.

"London?" Matty echoed, and raised his glass in salute. "Very impressive!"

"One week of guest appearances," Tory nodded eagerly, as if to prove how far Jack had flown out of the reach of Matty's plans — whatever they might be — and thwart them, if possible. "They keep him so busy! Small wonder we've scarcely heard from him."

Damn! She hadn't meant to say that, either, shut her mouth on the instant while trying to keep her smile in place. It was hard to tell if Matty reacted to her words, but he peered at her for another moment.

"And he didn't take you with him?"

"Some of us must be left to run the company in his absence," she said quickly. "Yes, he is the manager of our troupe. Our people voted him in. We surely would be disbanded by now, if not for him, ask anyone." Tory knew she was babbling, but could not seem to stop herself. "They all rely on Jack."

Matty gazed at her quietly for another beat. "Well, why isn't he here?"

 

Top: King John’s First Appearance at the New Theater, Covent Garden. Satirical etching by Isaac Cruickshank, 1809.

 
Above right: Queen Square, Bristol. T. L. Rowbotham, 1827