CHAPTER 40: A Gambling Man

Henry Harding was a gambling man. What was the point of living if one were not bold enough to hazard all on the next throw of the dice?

But he should never have expected the London audiences to be such Philistines. As he made his way down Brydges Street for the theatre, bundled up against an unseasonably chilly afternoon, Harding was learning to his cost that taste among playgoers was not to be counted upon, not even in the Metropolis, despite the elevated prestige and prices of a Theatre Royal. But these metropolitan fools obviously didn't know real acting when they saw it; they were as boorish and ill-informed as any lot of sheep farmers in the provinces. For this sort of reception, he might as well have stayed with the miserable Fairweather Company.

Here he had given them the grandest Prince Hal they were ever likely to see, twice now, and reaped nothing but shouts and snickers for his pains. Even some boos. Henry Harding booed! It was beyond all comprehension. In one way, he was almost sorry he hadn't left Dance alone to take his punishment in London as he ought to. Harding himself would have paid a princely sum indeed to see Dance booed off the stage.

Still, his plan had been a sound one. Crowder had thought to cut him off and have done with him, but he would learn that Henry Harding was not to be cast off like some lowly dog. Crowder had paid handsomely for three performances, and Harding was only too ready and able to fulfill that contract, once he'd seen to it that the real Dance was safely out of the way. He knew that Major Lenoir's bruisers had followed him to Bath. A timely dose of laudanum in Dance's ale at the White Hart Inn, and a change of costume upstairs enabled Harding to board the coach for London as "Jack Dance," leaving behind the other for Lenoir's bruisers to find.

He'd arranged it so carefully, enduring shabby, but discreet lodgings here in London in an unfashionable neighborhood not favored by show folk. No one in the present Drury company had ever worked with Harding before, nor Dance, apparently, but Harding couldn't let a chance encounter with some other player passing through town expose his ruse. And even though the acclaim he'd expected to reap had somehow eluded him, he would still earn a leading man's salary for his pains. He was due to be paid after tonight's performance, and B'God he'd collect his pay and remove himself to the Continent before Crowder or his creditors or Lenoir's bruisers caught up to him. There he would resume his own identity and begin again, once shed of the Jack Dance persona that was proving so unlucky for him.

Past the porticoed entrance to the theatre, silent and unassuming at this early hour of the day, he turned down Russell street for the backstage entrance in the rear. A blast of cool air out of the north-east hit him as he rounded the corner, and he shrugged deeper into his topcoat. That shapeless overcoat he'd taken off Dance should have been warmer on such a day, he supposed, but it was about twenty years out of date and he refused to be seen in it.

Harding paused, as was his custom of late, to peer about for anyone resembling a magistrate. That had been the only potential flaw in his plan: the false accusation that Crowder had also paid so handsomely for. No such charge had yet occurred; still, Harding was prudent enough to lay low and avoid the theatre district between play nights. This close to the fulfillment of his plan, with his goal in sight, he could ill afford to be taken up for piracy.

But all he could see from this vantage point in the block ahead were a couple of vendors of tea and flowers, a few gentlemen of business, one or two laborers, a pair of ladies, and a rider on horseback heading the other way, so he continued on.

Of course, he'd considered this complication at the outset. But if worse came to the worst, he knew he could find people to identify him as Henry Harding. Sims, the theatrical agent at the Harp, knew him, or Plumleigh, or anyone else he'd ever played with in the Provinces might be sent for. He was confident he could wriggle out of a charge of piracy, and it was probably not a crime to impersonate another fellow onstage if he had to expose the ruse to save himself.

But his luck had held so far. That acquaintance of Crowder's, what was his name? Forrester, yes, well the fellow had yet to lay an information against Dance, and after tonight, Harding would be gone from London, from all of England, before he did. If the real Dance should subsequently come to light, then let him deal with the charge. Whether Dance was taken up for a pirate or bludgeoned half to death by Lenoir's bruisers in Harding's stead, it made no odds to Harding. By then, he'd be long gone, leaving them all in his dust, Crowder, Lenoir, the lot of them. Chances were excellent he'd be on a boat to the Continent at their expense this very night. And he was, after all, a gambling man.

Rounding the corner of Russell Street onto Drury Lane proper — which, by some whimsical turn of fate, was now where the back of the theatre was situated —Harding suddenly came up short. Loping toward him was a tall, grey, slender figure he seemed to know. Well-made but drab clothing, a top hat so correct it might be called haughty, a thin, disapproving line of a mouth that Harding knew all too well. Richard Gabriel, of all the confounded luck. What was he doing here?

Harding thought to slink away again, hoping he wouldn't be noticed, but Gabriel came to a full stop before him, blocking the sidewalk. That chilly stare told Harding he'd been noticed, all right. Well, he was committing no crime, walking down a public street. There was nothing to do but brazen it out and hope Gabriel would soon be off.

"Gabriel," he muttered.

Gabriel's gloved hand hovered near the brim of his hat, although he did not touch it.

"Harding."

On pure instinct, Harding's gaze skittered about to assure himself that no one connected to the theatre was nearby to witness this exchange. If only Gabriel would continue on his way, but he had now planted himself like a damned Greek column outside the stage door entrance, as if he had not intention whatsoever of moving on. In any other circumstance, how Harding would have loved to sweep past the sanctimonious old has-been and claim the glory of his new position as lead actor at Old Drury. But not in the present moment; his name wasn't even in the bills. Why didn't the fellow move on? Then the horrible thought occurred to Harding that perhaps Gabriel was engaged to play for the night at Drury.

"Passing through London, eh?" said Harding hopefully.

"As you see," muttered Gabriel, who seemed to be viewing Harding with the same air of uncertainty.

It was utter nonsense. When had they ever been inclined to stop and have a cozy chat together? Harding longed to take to his heels, but he was due inside the theatre.

"Well, don't let me keep you . . . " Harding began, hoping the infernal fellow was at least player enough to take the cue.

But in that moment, the stage door opened, and, to Harding's despair, Wallack himself, the acting manager, emerged.

"Gabriel, old man!" Wallack greeted the other player, stepping out onto the sidewalk. "I'm afraid I'm a bit late for our appointment. It's been a hectic day."

"Do not distress yourself, James," said Gabriel, with a gracious nod, and another fleeting glance at Harding. Of all the cursed luck that these two should know each other! Then Wallack turned in the direction of Gabriel's glance and noticed Harding hovering there.

"Why, here he comes at last, Mr. Belair," cried the manager.

And Henry Harding knew he'd stumbled into a nightmare of colossal proportions as another figure appeared in the doorway where Wallack had just been. A small, dark figure, a gargoyle, for all his elegant clothing, the face of a demon, staring at him.

"This is not Jack," scowled Alphonse Belair.

"Not Mr. Dance?" Wallack turned to Belair in perplexity.
   
"Jack Dance?" echoed Gabriel, looking from the manager to Belair to Harding, and back again to Wallack. "But this is Henry Harding. We played in the provinces together for years!"

B'God, it was a conspiracy! All of his old enemies gathered together to thwart him! One of them alone, he might have outfaced, but two against one?

It was Wallack rounding on him now. "Look here, Mr. Harding, is it? What are you playing at?"

And at Wallack's elbow, Belair advancing on him with cold fury in his eye. "Where is Jack?"

"Jack is missing?" And Gabriel too turned on Harding.

He felt himself falling back a step, perhaps two, in his desperate confusion, until the clatter of a speeding vehicle directly behind him halted his progress. They all turned to see a small carriage exploding around the corner from Russell Street, whose driver had to exert all his strength to pull up his two lathered horses almost immediately opposite the stage door. Harding recognized the device on the side of the carriage with sickening certainty; he had seen it often enough in the driveway at Major Lenoir's. But it was neither the major himself, nor any of his bruisers that emerged from the carriage; it was a tall, dark fellow, hatless, in a nondescript coat and trousers. He staggered a little when he hopped down to the road, but recovered himself with determination.

Gabriel stepped back to give the fellow access to the sidewalk. Wallack was staring in utter bewilderment. It was Belair who marched forward with a terse nod to the stranger, gesturing him into their midst.

"Mr. Wallack," said Belair, "allow me to present Mr. Dance."

And before any of the wretched plotters could spare another thought for him, much less Lenoir's driver, Harding had bolted round the corner for Russell Street and was gone.



 

After so much time shut up alone in the dark, Jack could scarcely remember how to talk to three people at once. He attempted to exchange pleasantries with Mr. Wallack, the acting manager, a curly-haired fellow with wary eyes viewing him very dubiously.

"And Richard, how nice to see you," Jack went on, in some confusion, turning to Gabriel. "Are you at Drury now?"

"I've an engagement in Croydon" Gabriel told him. "I was on my way down when I received a kind invitation to luncheon from Mr. Wallack. We are old acquaintances."

By some miracle, Alphonse had materialized as well. Despite all Jack wanted to say to him, there was little time, although he did manage to blurt out an apology, as well as a sketchy and improbable-sounding story of how and why he'd been waylaid. That Alphonse had refrained from wringing Jack's neck on sight suggested to Jack how worried they must have been. Nearly a fortnight, now, and no word from him. What must they have thought?
   
Last night, Major Lenoir had offered him a good night's sleep in a private room at his club in Bristol before sending him off to London. The fellow had been all too eager to ameliorate his treatment of Jack, once Harding's ruse against them all had been discovered. But Jack had been far too agitated to accept any more than a bath, a meal, a change of clothes, and a private carriage for his journey — especially when he learned what day it was. He was due in London for his final performance the following night, and he'd be damned did he let Harding lay any further waste to his reputation. At least the carriage had been marginally more comfortable than a public coach would have been, and much faster, but he still feared he looked more like mad old Lear on the heath than Prince Hal.

The manager evidently thought so too.

"Not another Jack Dance!" Wallack was moaning now. "One was quite sufficient! B'God, there must be a whole tribe of 'em, each one more wretched and bombastic than the last. A plague of 'em, I say, come to ruin me!"

"Come, James, I will personally vouch for Mr. Dance — the real Mr. Dance," said Gabriel, touching Wallack's elbow and steering him back toward the stage door, which Alphonse obligingly opened for them all. "He played Orsino to my Malvolio, and many richer parts besides. Upon my word, he will not disgrace your house."

"The disgrace has already been done, I'm afraid," Wallack fretted, as they all maneuvered inside, through the shadowy scene room and out into the capacious backstage area. Property men, call-boys, prompters, dressers, and young supernumeraries heading for the dressing rooms were already all about, which might have set Jack's nerves on edge in any other circumstances. But after his recent ordeal, the familiar pre-play bustle, even on so grand a scale, held no more terrors for him.

"The bills are posted and the tickets are sold," Wallack was going on, "a house drawn by notoriety and ready to sneer, no doubt."

"But a house nonetheless," said Gabriel. "Send your call-boys into every ale-house in the neighborhood, and tell them a delicious scandal will be revealed from the stage of Old Drury tonight. That will fill the pit."

Jack gazed at the veteran actor, impressed at how much Miles Fairweather's taste for sensations had rubbed off on him. Richard nodded back at him, adding, "And Jack must address the house from the stage."

"Yes," said Wallack,  warming to the idea. "Tell 'em you were set upon by brigands and cruelly imprisoned —"

"I shall beg their pardon for being detained," Jack said firmly, "and then beg their indulgence." And then he would be all too eager to fulfill the obligation for which he had been contracted, and salvage what was left of his reputation — or so he hoped. If this were the last performance he would ever be allowed to give in the whole of England, he would not paint himself the victim and cheapen the moment with a sentimental appeal to the audience. He would succeed or fail on his own merits.

He saw Alphonse nodding his tacit approval, a rare enough sight, and while Wallack was speaking to Richard, Jack turned to his old friend.

"How are they all in Kelsingham? Is . . ."

"Time is short, Mr. Dance," Wallack interrupted briskly. "We've a blocking rehearsal straightaway, and then you must be fitted for your dress. At least you're a similar build to Mr . . . to that other fellow, but it's all in the details, you know . . . "

The acting manager was heading into a knot of supplicants bearing playscripts and timetables and props and questions, and Jack understood he was to follow. There was no time at all to brood over his last London debut ten years ago, as an untested lad of nineteen, nor spare more than a thought for all of those left behind in Kelsingham. He must focus on this night, this one performance, on which his entire future — and that of everyone he cared about — depended.

Yet, during the hours he'd spent in that carriage — most of them sleepless  —he'd thought of nothing but his duty to those in Kelsingham. Even now, he remembered, with a pang, this promise to write to Tory every day from London. What must she think of him?

"Alphonse," he began, pausing beside his friend,  "can you post a note to Tory tonight by mail coach? Tell her I will write her as soon as —"

"Come, Mr. Dance!" Wallack called back to him.

"Yes, of course I will write to her," Alphonse agreed, hustling him forward. "But you must concentrate on your playing. Our friends are looking after Victoria. There is nothing to worry about!"

 

Top: Theatre Royal Drury Lane, ca 1820

Above right: Drury Lane, with the Cock & Magpie on the right and the steeple of St. Mary-le-Strand in the background, ca 1820

Above left: Drury Lane playbill, 1834