CHAPTER 42: Vanished

 Kit knew he must do something. The question was, what? It seemed funny to him now, how much he used to enjoy collecting the theatre's post every morning. Now it was a chore he dreaded. Not that the post contained bad news; far from it. They still received their share of bills and remonstrances, but there was nothing but good news from London. It had not been Jack at all whose performances earned such scathing notices, Belair had written in a letter Kit had received yesterday. Jack had been prevented from arriving at Drury for several days, in a dramatic turn of events worthy of any melodrama, more of which Belair would reveal later. But now Jack was safely in London and ready to make his debut.

And here was another letter from Belair this morning, posted last night, attesting to Jack's reception in the capitol. No, there was naught but good news from London. The only bad news was Kit's to unleash, if only he could think of some way to set it down on paper. He'd held off as long as possible, afraid committing it to ink would make it more true, but there was no getting round it now.

Tory had not appeared at the playhouse last night, throwing their program into fearful upheaval. No one believed for an instant she was so irresponsible as to simply walk away, however distressed she might have been. She had vanished, and it was no use pretending the situation was anything but sinister.

Kit sat back in his chair and plucked Belair's most recent letter off his desk again, the one dispatched last night from London. The sort of letter they'd have been thrilled to receive in any other circumstance. It was not Belair's manner to be effusive, but he mentioned that no spoiled fruit had been involved in Jack's reception the night before at Drury Lane. Jack had apologized handsomely to the house for his delay, and acquitted himself onstage with a minimum of shame, judging from the applause.

Those who had come to mock stayed through to the end, wrote Belair, so that there were scarcely any half-price seats to sell after the interlude—which pleased Mr. Wallack, who stood Jack to a meal and a pint or two after at The Rose. Nothing would do but that Jack was coaxed to rise again and address the multitude in that crowded place. With the result that the "sensation," as our dear Mr. Fairweather would say, of the vagabond player who arrived out of nowhere for his thrilling London debut, with the courage to face the mob and snatch back his reputation from the abyss of infamy was the talk of every inn, tavern and coffeehouse in the city in a matter of hours.

This morning, Jack is still sleeping off the effects of last night. But tell Victoria not to worry. He will send her a separate letter as soon as he wakes, with a piece of news to share, in time for the evening mail coach which shall also carry this letter to you. I shall only say we are unavoidably detained in the capitol for two more days, after which time it will be our very great pleasure to return at last to all of our friends in Kelsingham.

Tom Ashbrook put his head in round the door. "Sorry, Kit." He sighed, as he slipped into the office. "Tory has not been seen in either shop, tavern, nor coaching inn at any time yesterday, last night, or this morning."

"Aye, and we know she is not in London," Kit agreed, with another glance at Belair's letter. Beside it was a small, sealed letter addressed to "Mrs. Lightfoot" in Jack's quick, decisive hand. It seemed to glare at Kit like a reproach. How had things deteriorated so completely, so fast? What had they all been thinking, leaving him to look after things?

"She could not have covered her tracks more completely if she'd run off to Gretna Green," Tom added, with no little sympathy.

"Might she not have done?" Kit said, too quickly. "Be off on some sort of adventure, anyway?"

"Well, Jenny thinks not," Tom said, with another shake of his head. "She left her book behind, you see, that crumbling volume she's always scribbling in. Left it right out on the table in her room, which was not her way. Jenny says she's sure Tory intended to come back."

So she must have known she was going somewhere, Kit thought, but where? And why? No one had seen Tory since she'd seen off Jenny and Tom at the back door of the lodging house two nights since. She had vanished like a ghost.

Kit raked a hand through his hair, and recognized it at once as a gesture of Jack's he'd seen dozens of times, when the manager's cares became too great. He'd called a meeting with the rest of the company in an hour to discuss how they ought to proceed with their numbers so reduced. Jack's letter to Tory might have been burning a hole in his desk, the way Kit plucked it up in agitation. "I need to put this somewhere safe," he muttered.

"I'll take it to Jenny," Tom offered, taking it from Kit. "She'll keep it with the rest of Tory's things. For when she comes back."

Kit nodded at this painfully obvious, and yet much appreciated attempt to make him feel better. "Thank you, Tom," he said, clearing a space on his desk top. "And now run along. I've a letter to write."


 

"I promise you, the company is in Mr. Bell's very capable hands," Alphonse assured Jack for what must have been the twentieth time since their improbable reunion two days ago. "We are in regular communication," Alphonse went on. "If there were anything at all amiss, I should have heard by now."

Jack nodded doubtfully. He was well acquainted with Kit's talents in all things theatrical, but it seemed like a lot to ask of the lad to run things on his own with both Jack and Alphonse so long absent.

They turned down yet another corner — he'd lost count of how many turns there had been since leaving the theatre — and entered into a dark, narrow alleyway, hemmed in on both sides by high, forbidding brick walls that turned the afternoon light into a kind of permanent dusk. They passed a tiny storefront on the corner facing the street that announced Grillby's sign-painting shop, and followed the leader of their expedition, Mr. Grillby himself, halfway down the alley to a door in the brick wall. The door opened out of the dank alley and onto an equally gloomy flight of stairs.

"Here we, are, genl'men," said Grillby, with a weary half-smile, standing aside and gesturing upwards. "Watch your step."

Jack had never seen a less promising situation for lodgings. Harding could not have got himself any more thoroughly lost in the Metropolis had he been a rat in fact, gnawing under the cobblestones.

Half an hour earlier this fellow had appeared at Drury Lane, cap in hand, asking for a word with Mr. Dance. Jack and Alphonse were already at the theatre, in conference with Wallack about tomorrow night's performance, when Jack would be giving Prince Hal again. But when he had emerged to meet with the fellow, a stranger to him, with a somewhat untended mustache and side whiskers and a laborer's smock, he'd heard the reaction that was becoming all too familiar.

"But — this is not Mr. Dance," Grillby had protested. He'd turned again to Wallack in confusion. "I understood Mr. Dance was employed here," he said. "He owes me money."

Of course, Wallack had too much on his plate just now to attend to this matter, but Jack was interested in correcting any further offenses committed in his name, and Alphonse was sure he'd get into mischief without him, so they'd come out together to verify Mr. Grillby's claim.

It seemed to take forever to climb the stairs to the floor above the shop, especially for Alphonse, Jack thought, although he bore it with his usual stoicism. The room the landlord finally let them into should not have appealed to Harding's extravagant tastes in any other circumstances, but its tiny size and inconvenient access made it an excellent hiding hole. The iron bedstead was rusty, the carpet was stained, the washbasin was cracked, and a small, high window provided little in the way of light, air, or views, but did serve to cast a murky haze over the interior. Nothing much else could be seen due to the way the last occupant's few things were scattered haphazardly about.

It was as if an explosion in the unmade bed had spewed a variety of items across itself and the furnishings — one plain shirt, a couple of cotton muslin neckcloths, unrolled and then discarded, a copy of The Gentleman's Magazine, a half-smoked cigar, a variety of pomades and potions littering the washstand, a few greasy papers that had once contained food. As Jack prowled about the cramped space, he noticed on the floor near the bed Harding's black patent-leather dancing pumps, evidently forgotten in the rush to take himself off after their encounter outside Old Drury. He poked about in vain for any sign of Kit's white silk cravat, but that item, along with Jack's charcoal grey suit, had vanished with Harding.

"Your cause is legitimate, Mr. Grillby," Alphonse sighed, with a nod to the landlord. "Thank you for allowing us to have a look."

"Crown and six," said Grillby apologetically. "Said he'd settle up two nights ago, but he hasn't been back since."

"I will pay, of course," Jack assured the landlord, without even a glance at Alphonse, who he knew could not object in these circumstances. Jack had been paid the other night, in Harding's stead, and when he'd refused to accept the total that had originally been offered him for only one night's work, Wallack had instantly offered him two more nights, so that Jack stood to earn considerably more in salary as well as repute. Besides which, Wallack was putting Jack into a different role, a comedy, tonight, to appease the sudden public interest in him. It grieved Jack to stay away from his own company for so long, and he couldn't even let himself think about how desperately he missed Tory, but as long as he was under contract to Wallack, who had been so generous, for all their sakes —

Some heavy thing obstructed his way as he rounded the bedstead during this reverie, something that had slipped or been thrown to the floor. But Jack picked it up like the treasure it was; his old oxblood-colored redingote. It had little enough intrinsic value, which was surely why Harding had cast it off, but it was priceless to Jack because Tory had bought it for him in the rag shop, that far-off day in London. It was as if Tory herself had just walked into the room, and he gathered the musty old thing to his chest as if it were spun from gold.

Jack scarcely had the presence of mind to find his pocketbook and pay Mr. Grillby his rent, and something extra for his trouble. They arranged with the landlord to stuff the rest of Harding's belongings into a box and store it below stairs for awhile, in case Harding should come back to reclaim them, although Jack very much doubted that he would. But Jack would be keeping his redingote, and while the others made their arrangements, he folded it tenderly over his arm.

How radiant Tory had been on the day she insisted on buying it for him! Hellfire, he missed her so much; how could he bear to be apart from her for one more minute, let alone two more days? But he owed Wallack that much, after all the acting manager had suffered on his account. And what must Tory think of him? He had promised to write her every day.

Well, he had written to her now, at long last. Perhaps she was reading his letter at this very moment, it should have arrived in Kelsingham by noon, and he folded the redingote closer. It was a damnably poor excuse for a live person, this old coat, just as his letter must seem to Tory, an inanimate thing of pulp and ink. He could only hope he'd poured enough of his heart into it to earn her forgiveness, after all this time. If she posted a letter back to him tonight, he would have it tomorrow morning, although it would seem an eternity to wait until then. But it couldn't be helped. Two more days, Rusty, he thought, and I will never, ever leave your side again. I promise!

 

Top:  Exterior of Drury Lane Theatre, by R.B. Schnebbellie. London, 1821.

Above: St. Martin's Church Lane, London, George Scharf, 1828