CHAPTER 43: The Dowry

Screaming was no use at all.

Tory had been debased enough yesterday evening to try screaming for her life. She'd seen the pair of blue-jacketed Marines stationed on either side of her cabin door, and as soon as Matty had unlocked her door to bring her evening meal, she had cried out that she was being held against her will. The only result of which was that soon after, she heard Matty outside chuckling with the Marines over her "bridal nerves."

Now another pink dawn was shimmering to life over Bristol Harbor. Two full days already she'd spent in captivity on board the Hotspur, with the third about to commence. And what could she do about it? She was as helpless as a wolf cub in a trap, no, more helpless; at least a wolf cub had claws and teeth, while she had no tools at all to either defend herself or battle her way free.

Once again she found herself prowling around the cabin for any opportunity she might have missed. But the cabin was made fast. The porthole above her bunk was too tiny for her to wriggle through, even supposing she could pry away the brass fittings. She'd come out in her simplest striped frock, no stays, thank the gods, she'd peeled those off as soon as she returned from the theatre that last evening, but it was still a frock, which would inhibit any chance of tumbling or swimming her way out of this place.

The nearness of the small boats ferrying cargo out to the ships in the channel was maddening, likewise all the activity along the two broad quays on either side of the river. She could hear and feel all the normal activity of a working ship in port all around her — barrels of cargo thumped aboard, hands clambering up the lines to trim the sails, watches being called. The ship was full of crewmen, but fewer now than there would be once Hotspur put out to sea; less of a gauntlet to run, could she only get out of this cabin and up on deck.

But that was the issue. Matty brought her two lavish meals a day that she couldn't eat. A chamber pot was curtained off in the corner, but Matty always accompanied the steward who came in to empty it, and her door was never opened for any other reason. Tory had considered using the pot as a weapon to fling in Matty's face the next time he appeared; she would show him bridal nerves! But even supposing she could take Matty by surprise and get out the door, those Marines were always waiting just outside; she'd heard they were there to preserve her reputation when her "betrothed" visited her, but their real purpose was to prevent her escape.

Matty had already put it about the ship that she might behave irrationally, like all females as their wedding day approached. And anyway, what man among them who wanted to keep his living would defy his captain to come to her aid?

Her mind kept straying back to that last, fateful night in Kelsingham. Why hadn't she been more on her guard? When had she ever known Matty to do a kindness for anyone else that did not directly profit himself? She still failed to grasp how this ridiculous marriage plot would profit him, other than pleasing his father, but there must be more to it than that. Staving off a potential charge of piracy from Jack was still the only reason she could think of, but why would Matty think Jack would so endanger himself to accuse him?

For that matter, why would Matty even assume that abducting her would make any difference to Jack, one way or another? This thought from a renegade part of her brain that clearly believed she was not yet miserable enough. What had become of Jack?

When she heard the familiar scrape in the lock, Tory just prevented herself diving for the chamber pot and instead forced herself to sit on the edge of the built-in bunk, like a rational person. She knew she must persuade Matty to relax his vigilance, not make it more acute, if she were ever to get out of here. She must pretend to play along.

"Good morning, Tory. And it is a fine morning." Matty shouldered his way into the cabin, carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a rasher of bacon, a dish of late strawberries, and a pot of coffee, which he placed on the shelf beside her bunk. She might have chanced a run for it, but that the burly steward, following close on Matty's heels, and bearing a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, planted himself in the doorway. Matty returned to take the package from him, and, as soon as the fellow melted away, dragged the chair into the space between the bunk and the slightly ajar door and sat himself down.

"You should eat something, " he added, nodding to the tray. "You'll miss these rations once we're out on the open sea."

As tempted as she might have been by the smoky aroma of the coffee and the succulent berries, the idea of sailing off on this ridiculous farce killed her appetite.   

"Do your people not wonder why you have to keep your bride chained in her cabin all day?" she asked sweetly, pretending to nibble a piece of bread. "Even a pet monkey, gets a turn on deck once in awhile. They'll think me deformed. Or poxed." If she could play to his vanity, perhaps she could goad him into escorting her out on deck, past those Marines.

"But, my dear, I wish to keep you all to myself."

This bland pleasantry was automatic enough, but before she could respond, Matty was on his feet again, ripping open the paper to show her what it contained. "Anyway, see what I have brought you! You shall make your debut soon enough."

And he shook out a pale, filmy garment that shone like satin, with extravagantly puffed upper sleeves, a slightly dropped waist trimmed with a soft green colored ribbon, and two or three tiers of lace-trimmed overskirts, their scalloped edges caught up with satin rosettes. To her horror, Tory realized it was a wedding gown.

"But — this is ridiculous!" she gasped.

"What can you mean, my dear?" he murmured back, in a voice like butter. "I have only our future happiness in mind."

"You do realize that I have no family and no money — " she began.

"I've plenty of each for the two of us," he assured her.

"But will your family not be shamed?" Tory forged on. She'd seen enough melodramas to have heard of these traditions. "I have no dowry to bring to the marriage."

"Dowry?" Matty laughed. "By then, I'll have the damned codicil — "

They stared at each other in the sudden, awkward silence.

"What codicil?" Where had Tory heard that word before? Some silly after-piece. It had to do with marriage and money.

Matty spread the gown across the foot of the bunk and strode two steps nearer, and Tory stood too, as if in self-defense. "Yes, there is a codicil," he told her, his voice low. "It's not the first ever written, nor will it be the last. it's a perfectly common business arrangement."

"What has it to do with me?"

He shook his head, amused at her ignorance. "I need a bride," he told her plainly. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to woo one, but my mother's portion of my inheritance shall not come to me until I acquire one. It's a sizable portion," he added meaningfully.

So that was the dowry he expected from this absurd union. "But — it's like a play!" Tory exclaimed.

"I assure you, I am in earnest." Since his attempts to charm and woo her had failed, Tory supposed, he was at last resorting to honesty. "Tomorrow, my residency in Bristol will be established under the law. I shall escort you under guard to the chapel at Hotwells Spring, a charming little place set up some little distance downriver for the convenience of those taking the waters. Why trouble with all the pomp and fuss of Bristol when Hope Chapel is right on our way? Reverend Kirkwell, an old acquaintance of my father's, shall perform the ceremony. The old gent has a taste for Demerara rum, and my father imports the best, so he has obligingly waived the Banns and the requirement concerning the hour of the day in issuing me a civil license. At our convenience, we may proceed to the church, westward on the tide, see the deed done, and be on our way."

The romantic honeymoon at sea Tory had once envisioned for her tale of Captain Lightfoot brayed in her face now. What rot.

"Matty — " she began again.

But he warded off any further protest with a pointed look. "You will marry me, Mistress Lightfoot," he told her. "Here is the proof."

From inside his jacket he produced a folded paper. With a deft thumb, he pried up the elaborate seal affixed to the flap and shook it open for her inspection. A blue tax stamp was affixed to an upper corner, and a deal of cramped printing was wedged beneath, with a few names and dates written in by hand.

Matthew Forrester, New York City, America, and the parish of St.Vincent, Bristol, in the county of Gloucestershire, Bachelor, Victoria Lightfoot of the same parish…

"I've scarcely ever stepped foot in Bristol!" Tory protested.

"Doesn't matter," said Matty with a shrug. "The legalities are satisfied so long as the groom can claim some connection to the place."

WHEREAS, Tory read on,  it is alleged that ye have resolved to proceed to the Solemnization of True and Lawful Matrimony . . .

Her blood running ever more cold, she scanned down through the dense block of print until her gaze snagged on the words,

. . . if in this case there shall hereafter appear any Fraud suggested to us, or Truth suppressed at the time of obtaining this license, then this License to be void and of no Effect in Law . . .

"Is it not considered fraud to drag the bride to the altar against her will?"

"There is the beauty of it," Matty replied smoothly. "The groom may speak on behalf of both, as a symbol of their union-to-be, as you might say, and also to swear there is no legal impediment. Which I have done."

"But surely the bride must consent?" said Tory. "Is that not a legal impediment?"

"It makes no difference one way or another," said Matty. "The only impediments that might concern the law are blood relations which are too close, or an undisclosed living spouse somewhere. None of which are relevant to us."

Tory's heart sank even lower. Even if she and Jack had ever thought to solemnize their union, it would do her no good now if she could not produce him. In this case, as in so many, law and justice had but a nodding acquaintance.

Matty folded the document again, pressed the seal back in place, and slipped it back inside his jacket.

"May I not have a woman, a seamstress, to help with my gown?" Tory asked desperately.

"Of course you may not," Matty smiled. "I shall perform that office myself, when the time comes. You needn't fear for your modesty, after what we have been to each other." He was fairly oozing now. "It's high time I made an honest woman out of you."

Had the chamber pot been nearby, she'd have crashed that smug expression off his face, Marines or no. As it was, she just managed, through clenched teeth, to beg for a needle and thread for any last-minute alterations, as the gown had never been fitted to her, and this he agreed to as he took his leave.

Tory stood where she was, trying to control the hammering of her heart, the metallic taste of dread seeping up the back of her throat.

This was not a play.

There  would be no hero scaling the battlements to rescue her, no dragon-slaying knight to carry her off. No friendly goddess descending from the heavens to pluck her out of harm's way. She would have to be her own Dea ex machina.

And soon. Opportunity was scant, but she must seize the only one she would get — a journey off this ship for the church. A boat ride, a few minutes in a carriage, perhaps; she was certain the church would not be far off. She must affect a swooning fit, beg to use the privy, surely neither Matty nor her guard would follow her there. A moment off on her own, that's all she would need, before this comic travesty could be solemnized in the church.

Tory knew she could not simply refuse to take the vows. Even in silence, the ceremony would be performed over her, and considered legally binding; it would merely symbolize the silencing of her voice forever, as Matty's wife. On no account could she allow that to happen.

But the tide was inexorable. And time was running out. She had only twenty-four hours of freedom left.



 

"Missing?" Jack stared at Alphonse as if he'd never heard the word before. "What does he mean, missing?"

Alphonse peered down at the letter again, as if hoping this time the words written in young Mr. Bell's neat hand might contain a different message. But the same distressing news was still there.
   
“She did not come to the playhouse for the last performance — " Alphonse began.

"No matter how angry Tory is at me, she would never make all that extra work for the others," Jack insisted.

"And yet, she did not appear," Alphonse went on. "Kit says she had not been seen all that day by anyone in the company."

They had come late to Drury Lane this morning, on the advice of Mr. Wallack. He had told them to prepare for a late night, as a mysterious patron had bespoken tonight's performance. Jack was glad to be able to repay Mr. Wallack in any way he could, although it kept him away from Tory another day, but Kit's letter waiting for them this morning, written to Alphonse in care of  Mr. Wallack, was rapidly making hash of Jack's resolve.

"No one saw her for an entire day?" Jack asked now. "Not even Jenny? And no one found that odd?" He was perched anxiously on a stool in the cavernous wardrobe, about to be fitted for the costume he would wear in the farce tonight, a prelude to his Prince Hal; Alphonse had found him here as soon as Mr. Wallack had given him the letter.   

"I can only tell you what Mr. Bell writes to me," said Alphonse, shaking his head over the letter he held. "Victoria had seemed distracted for several days. But it was not until she failed to arrive on the night of the performance that anyone became alarmed."

Jack was on his feet now, oblivious to the dressers and seamstresses all abustle around them.

"There are no signs of any disturbance," Alphonse  hurried on. "Nothing to indicate that she has met with any — "

"But she's gone!" said Jack. "Nobody knows where." Alphonse could read plainly on Jack's face all the possibilities that were occurring to him, each more dire than the last. "And . . . for how long now?"

Alphonse consulted his letter. "Kit wrote this yesterday morning. The morning after Victoria failed to appear —"

"Two days now!" Jack cried. "Alphonse, we must go to Kelsingham at once —"

"But, the performance —"

"Performance?" Jack gaped. "How can I waste one more minute here if Tory —"

"Ah, here you are, gentlemen!" Mr. Wallack's voice, pitched to the gallery, hailed them from the doorway as he entered the wardrobe. The normally fretful acting-manager seemed to Alphonse in an unusually buoyant humor, nodding and beaming at the wardrobe-keeper and various other personnel as he strolled over to where Jack and Alphonse stood. "Would that all my people had your sterling work habits, Mr. Dance!"

"Mr. Wallack," Jack began, "I'm very much afraid —"

But the acting-manager sailed ahead. "Gentlemen, I've had a letter from Mr. Price, the manager. He tells me the original benefactor who desired to see Mr. Dance perform has been satisfied."

Alphonse glanced at Jack. It would surprise him if Wallack meant to suddenly turn them out, although he could see Jack was hoping he would.

But, if possible, Mr. Wallack's grin broadened even more.  "Ah! But I have been approached by another benefactor here in London who also desires to see Mr. Dance as Prince Hal, the patron who has bespoken tonight's performance. In result of which, almost the entire house is already sold out!"

Alphonse knew what an enormous house Drury Lane was; this wardrobe area alone, upstairs above the wings, was itself larger than most of the rural playhouses in which the Fairweather Company had ever performed. "Your patron must be a person of considerable wealth or influence," he said to Wallack.

"Or indeed both, Mr. Belair," Wallack agreed. "If he happens to be the King of England!"

Even Jack left off trying to interrupt Wallack at this momentous news.

"Oh yes, indeed," the acting-manager beamed. "George Fourth may not be the most worthy, nor indeed, sensible, of monarchs. But his greatest legacy will be as a supporter of the arts, a legacy he takes very great pains to keep polished up, as you might say. As elderly and infirm as he may be now, that our company boasts a visiting player who is suddenly the talk of London, making his mark in the role that Prinney values above all others, the rake who grows into royal greatness, has proved irresistible!" Wallack turned the full force of his goodwill upon Jack. "My boy, this will be the making of you!"

"His Majesty . . . does me a very great honor," Jack managed to stammer. "As   . . . you do yourself, sir. But — "

"But?" Wallack gave a hearty laugh. "There are no 'buts' tonight, Mr. Dance! Your future is calling!"

Only Alphonse could detect how little Jack's consternation had to do with awe over his new royal patron. But as Wallack went off to carry his happy news to the rest of the company, Jack turned desperately to Alphonse.

"Hellfire, I can't desert Wallack now, but — "

"You are under contract for one more performance," Alphonse reminded him. "And we have no evidence at all that Victoria is in any danger." He paused for a moment to let this sink in, and Jack slowly nodded. This was not the moment to tell Jack how truly miserable Victoria had been with no word from him — which, after all, had not been Jack's fault. For once.

"You must play tonight," Alphonse went on. "But I will get our things from Mr. Jepson's agent and hire his carriage for the night. As soon as the curtain falls, we will fly to Kelsingham to sort this out."

The fact was, they had no choice. Even Jack knew it.

"Then we will find her," said Alphonse. 

Top: T. L. S. Rowbotham,  View from the Stone Bridge, Head of the Quay, Bristol, 1826

Above right: Morning gown, fashion plate, 1827

Above left: Georgian Marriage Certficate, 1805. The bride’s consent is not required.

Above: George IV in profile by George Atkinson, 1821.