‘My act, Sir.’
‘Cheers, Jimmy.’
‘Thank you, James.’
Silas smirked. ‘Let me enjoy being meself a bit longer.’
‘Okay, Silas,’ James returned the grin. ‘It feels good to drop the façade.’
‘Which was the point I was trying to make.’
A dull clang trembled through the house, and James immediately squared his shoulders.
‘The first guests are arriving, Sir,’ he said, smoothing the rough edges of his accent as he smoothed Silas’ dinner jacket. ‘I shall leave you.’
‘Thanks, James. I mean it.’
James bowed. ‘Will there be anything else, Sir?’
‘Not right now, but this is my first posh dinner party, so you might need to keep an eye on me. Make sure I get things right.’
‘I am sure that between them, His Lordship and Mr Payne will manage, but I will be right behind you.’
With that reassurance, James left, and Silas took one last look in the mirror.
He shook his head in disbelief. Less than two months ago he would have been scrambling for a bench in the rope-room. He might have had sixpence in his pocket if he was lucky and he might have eaten a bread roll all day. He would certainly have been cold. Tonight, he wore tailored tails, his hair was neatly cut and clean, the acne of his youth had gone, and he was starting to put some muscle back on his bones. He was still full from lunch. A fire crackled in a grate, he had the most generous, loving man waiting for him a floor below, and he was safe. Now, having had a conversation that had been on his mind for days, he had someone in whom he could confide. Not that he had anything to confess other than his love for Archer which, to James and Thomas, was ever-apparent, and something he spoke to Fecker about whenever he could. With Fecks on one side offering an ear, but two-word replies, and Archer on the other offering long, deep discussions about love and society, he needed someone in the middle, and James was the only person he had.
‘Right,’ he said, with an air of finality in just the same way Archer did when changing the subject. ‘Time to make your man proud.’
He approached the bedroom door. On the other side, he would be a different character entirely. Tonight, he was to be the quiet, polite, well-mannered assistant to Lord Clearwater, a role he assumed with ease. He was used to acting. From playing the bewildered street urchin to the confident whore, the cheeky Paddy to the tough little street-rat, and now the lover to the secretary, he slipped into whatever was called for with the talent of a trained actor. He had been born with the chameleon-like ability, but his skills had been honed out of necessity on the East End streets, and it was just as well. He was about to dine with one of the leading lights of the theatrical world, and he had to play his part faultlessly.
Archer depended on him to say and do the right thing, and for a reason he couldn’t place, Silas knew it was not going to be easy.
Five
The hall was alive with a flickering light that welcomed the guests as they hurried in from the rain. Thomas was at the door, and somehow, in a few short minutes, James had delivered Silas’ laundry to the basement and made it to the hall to assist. Doctor Markland had arrived and was entering the drawing room with a finely dressed young lady on his arm, while another couple were being helped out of their hats.
Silas didn’t know them, but he knew the guest list. She was not Lady Marshall, so he could not be Cadwell Roxton. The couple could only be Archer’s solicitor, Marks and his wife, a woman who was as round as she was tall. They were well matched, and neither of them looked desperately in need of a meal. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt them to miss a few.
Silas paused at the turn in the stairs to straighten his tails. The costume prepared, he took a deep breath to ready his mind, and, without the slightest hint of stage fright, continued down to greet the couple.
‘You must be Marks,’ he said, approaching the man with an interested smile and a confident hand.
Thomas closed the door against the blustery drizzle and saw to the solicitor’s cloak.
‘That I am,’ Marks said. His ample jowls were as smooth as his barren forehead which swept up and over a mainly unfertile head. He wore a thick moustache waxed at the tips. ‘And do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Hawkins at long last?’
‘You do, Sir,’ Silas said, shaking his hand and wondering whether it was appropriate to congratulate the man on his ambitious whiskers.
‘And your good lady wife, I assume.’
‘Aye, that’s her.’ Marks was unimpressed by the reminder.
‘Mrs Marks,’ Silas bowed and kissed her glove.
‘Mr Hawkins.’
Her greeting could not have sounded more sombre had Silas been in the dock at the Central Criminal Court. He imagined he was about to be sent down for life.
‘His Lordship should have warned me of your elegance,’ he said, taking in the woman’s look of distrust. She narrowed her eyes, and he nearly lost sight of them behind her bulging cheeks. ‘How kind.’
It was extremely kind. Her hair, parted widely in the middle, fell limply on either side of her face as if it had given up on life, and her dress bowled out from somewhere around her bust, over a wide crinoline to root her to the floor under its own weight. She reminded Silas of one of the lids James whipped off his dinner dishes; a cloche, he called it. The footman was standing directly behind the woman, and Silas didn’t dare catch his eye.
‘You are Lord Clearwater’s… what, exactly?’ Mrs Marks demanded, hardly disturbing the narrow slit which was her mouth.
‘Assistant,’ Silas replied.
‘And what, pray, is one of them when it’s ’ome?’
‘It’s whatever His Lordship needs. I assist here at the house and at the refuge in Greychurch. I am a go-between if you like.’
Mrs Marks wasn’t impressed, but then she looked like the kind of woman who never was. ‘Have you a title?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Assistant.’
She rolled her eyes and tutted impatiently.
‘Ah, I see.’ Silas hated her already. ‘No, not that kind of title.’
‘From the East End aren’t you, lad?’ Mr Marks was from the north.
‘No, Sir.’ He struggled to keep his tone civil. ‘I was conceived in Ireland and born in the Canter Wharf area of Westerpool. I have been in this city four years. I can tell you come from somewhere like the Peak District, but you’ve lived in the south for some time. Your lady wife, on the other hand, is from the borough of Riverside.’
The couple exchanged glances, unnerved.
‘Aye,’ Marks said. ‘You have read us, Mr Hawkins.’
‘North Riverside,’ Mrs Marks emphasised. ‘No-one of importance is from south of the borough.’
Behind her, James stiffened.
‘This way, Sir, Madam.’ Thomas brushed past taking the tension with him, and the couple followed.
Silas paused at the footman’s shoulder, leant in and mimicked Mrs Marks. ‘”No-one of importance is from south of the borough.”’ James was doing his best not to laugh. ‘No-one apart from you, Jimmy. Ignore her. She’s a fecking snob.’
He left James sniggering, and the dazzle of the hall gave way to the glamour of the drawing room. The pear drop chandelier, the mantle candles, table lamps and fire warmly lit the lavish room. The furniture had been brushed, fresh flowers arranged, and the decanters on the sideboard gleamed. Thomas offered a tray of delicate glasses to the Marks couple who fell on them while Markland accepted more politely.
‘Ah, Hawkins,’ Archer said as Silas entered. ‘You’ve not met Miss Arnold.’
Silas was introduced to Markland’s companion, a striking beauty whose face did justice to the layered skirt and narrow-waisted bodice. She offered a slender, gloved hand to be kissed and Si
las did his duty.
‘Hawkins has been working with me to prepare the Cheap Street building,’ Markland explained. To Silas, he said, ‘Miss Arnold is the actress I was talking about.’
He had, in his eyes, all the adoration Silas displayed whenever he looked at Archer. The doctor was smitten with the woman. He had spoken about her so relentlessly during Silas’ visits that Silas resorted to asking what she was like in bed, hoping to embarrass the man into silence. It was not one of his better ploys. Markland hadn’t been intimate with the woman, he insisted, their love was too pure for that, and it wouldn’t happen until after marriage. Silas wished he’d never asked.
‘At last I meet the radiant beauty,’ he gushed, cringing inwardly. ‘You must have Irish blood in you. I have only seen such loveliness there.’
He caught a brief glare from Archer. Silas had never been to Ireland, and he wondered if he wasn’t overdoing the charm.
Miss Arnold soaked up the adoration and chuckled coyly while Mrs Marks paid Silas no attention. She monopolised the viscount and drew him into a discussion about what she saw as the distressingly shameful state of the Riverside streets.
‘Choked with unhealthy men too lazy to find work. What can you do about it?’ she complained as if unemployment was Archer’s fault.
‘Leave the man alone,’ her husband protested. ‘We’re here to talk about the gala.’
‘Well, if we can’t clean our own streets, what hope do we have for the lower classes?’
Mrs Marks laughed at what she thought was a joke, and Silas helped himself to a glass of sherry.
‘We are also here to discuss Mr Roxton’s performance and, most importantly, his speech,’ Archer said. ‘Have you met him before, Mrs Marks?’
The woman shifted uncomfortably on the settee, and it creaked. ‘No,’ she said, unable to hide a grimace. ‘My husband refuses to represent people in that… profession.’
‘Oh?’ Miss Arnold, beside her, maintained her charming smile despite the way the statement had been made. ‘Why is that?’
‘It’s their reputation, isn’t it?’
‘And what reputation would that be?’
Silas immediately liked the younger woman. Not only was she glamorous and poised, but she also was not afraid to challenge, and she was a good actress. He could feel the heat of her anger from across the room, yet her face displayed none of it.
‘You know,’ Mrs Marks said. ‘Their reputation.’
‘For?’
The larger lady showed no signs of floundering.
‘It’s not savoury,’ she said. ‘And best not discussed in His Lordship’s presence.’
‘Oh, I am more than happy to discuss the reputation of the acting profession.’ Archer swept onto the opposite settee. ‘Only last week I was in conversation with the Marquess of Salisbury on the very subject.’
Not even the mention of the Prime Minister could dissuade Mrs Marks from making her point.
‘And I am sure he agreed with me,’ she said. ‘That ladies should not be on the stage, and some subjects not laid bare for us all to see.’
‘Quite the contrary,’ Archer persisted. ‘Robert, like myself, had much praise for those who tread the boards. It is hard work.’
Whether Archer was dropping names on purpose or whether he really did call the Prime Minister by his Christian name made no odds to the woman. She might have dug herself into a hole, but she showed no signs of putting down the shovel. Entertained, Silas moved closer.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Marks said. ‘Men on stage is another matter, but honestly, Archer, are you telling me Salisbury approves of young ladies baring their souls in public, let alone their legs? Is that something of which our country should be proud?’
‘I don’t think we need to talk about rough subjects with His Lordship,’ her husband chided, emphasising Archer’s title to remind his wife of her place.
‘Archer doesn’t mind, he said so.’ The woman didn’t take the hint, but she did take a second glass of sherry which Thomas was offering to Miss Arnold.
‘I find the mysteries of the theatre quite compelling,’ Archer said. ‘The spectacle, the lights, the way one is drawn from the real world and enters another. Don’t you agree, Hawkins?’
‘I do, My Lord,’ Silas said. ‘When you think about it, life is a theatre. The spectacle of what we see around us day by day is merely reflected on the boards, albeit in a higher, more cerebral way.’ Archer had said it recently, and he had memorised the speech word for word.
Silas was pleased with himself, and Archer was also satisfied. Despite his serious expression, there were tiny signs of his amusement which only Silas caught. A brief twitch of an eyebrow, his lips creasing into a smile which he controlled as he opened his mouth to speak.
‘I am looking forward to seeing Miss Arnold’s Cressida next season.’
‘And there’s my point,’ Mrs Marks exclaimed. ‘Miss Arnold, is it right that you show such things to all and sundry in a public place?’
‘Such things?’
Miss Arnold looked to Archer for help, but he was too busy disguising a laugh with a cough. Silas was unable to assist, he had no idea what a Cressida was. Doctor Markland, however, came to Archer’s rescue.
‘I think you are confusing a tragic heroine with the cressida vertamulis,’ he said, foxing everyone including himself.
‘Am I? What’s that?’
‘Nothing to concern yourself with,’ the doctor said. ‘I think the point here is that some of us see no issue with ladies appearing on the stage. It has happened for many years. Why, Shakespeare was at it all the time. I admit, the bawdiness of the music hall may be considered low entertainment, but when one is patronising the arts, then surely the art is what matters.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Marks clutched for a string of pearls she wasn’t wearing. ‘Doctor, are you one of those athletics?’
Markland sniggered but made it sound like a hum of consideration. ‘I think you mean aesthete, madam. The words are of a similar derivation, from the Greek.’
‘And we’d better not bring them into the discussion,’ Mrs Marks declared to the room, seeking wide-eyed approval but finding none, particularly not from the doctor.
‘The Greek is aisthetes,’ he continued. ‘A person who perceives, while the word, athletic derives from athletes, one who competes for a prize.’
He had foxed Mrs Marks, and Silas was having trouble keeping up.
Archer wasn’t. ‘A most noble statement, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I might also consider myself aesthetic as I am concerned with beauty. In the arts…’ He turned to Silas and twitched his eyebrows. ‘In people…’ Then, to Miss Arnold, ‘and within ourselves.’ To Markland, he said, ‘But please, Philip, elucidate further with your knowledge of ancient languages, what exactly is one’s cressida vertamulis?’
The doctor glared at him, but not in anger. It read as panic beneath barely suppressed laughter as if to ask, ‘Did you have to?’
‘It’s…’ He stumbled. ‘Actually, it’s a…’
‘A subject we really shouldn’t discuss in front of the ladies,’ Silas said, rescuing the doctor and Mrs Marks at the same time. They both appeared grateful, although the relief on the doctor’s face turned instantly to a snigger.
‘No, quite,’ Archer said, having had his sport. ‘Each to his own, Mrs Marks. Not everyone approves of the theatre, because of the way the audience attends merely to be seen. There are other reasons for disapproval, of course, but disapproval is a right that should be protected.’
Mrs Marks grumbled, but seeing she was outnumbered, remained silent.
‘And on the subject of talents,’ Markland said. ‘Will Mr Roxton be singing for us this evening?’
‘Oh, I hope so.’ Miss Arnold clasped her hands, entreating Archer with dewy, ho
peful eyes.
Silas could see what Markland saw in her. She was a rare specimen of a woman. Her well-defined features were smooth and handsome, almost boyish, and her blonde hair daringly short, but behind the intriguing appearance was a contagious, juvenile enthusiasm for those around her. Knowing Markland as Silas did, he wasn’t just charmed by those qualities. Her breasts were barely detectable, and her voice was deep and rich.
‘Won’t we, Hawkins?’
‘What?’ Silas was caught off guard. He tore his admiration away from Miss Arnold and planted it firmly on Archer’s face. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir?’
‘I said we shall have to gently persuade Mr Roxton to sing.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Gently.’
‘And on that note,’ Archer continued, giving Silas a puzzled stare. ‘Before he arrives, we should just remind ourselves of the importance of his role in our endeavour.’
Miss Arnold sat attentively while Mrs Marks twiddled her sherry glass and frowned at the paintings. Markland, as tall as Archer but not quite as elegant, stood on one side of the fireplace, and Marks on the other, framing the stonework like a pair of mismatched bookends. All eyes were on the viscount, and Silas looked on proudly.
Tonight, as always, Archer was assured, eloquent and charming. He was more dashing than usual because of his tailored dinner-tails and white bow tie. His waistcoat shimmered like flames when the light caught the silk, and its cut drew the eye downwards where it ended in two points; arrows directing attention to his crotch. Silas drew in a deep breath and focused elsewhere.
‘As you know, Mr Roxton is the highlight of the opera season this year and will be what the newspapers call a star attraction at the gala night.’ Archer said. ‘He has agreed to make a speech before the performance, a most unusual break in theatrical tradition, I am told. That speech will further break tradition because of its subject matter; our mission in Greychurch. I can hear your horror, Mrs Marks.’ He bowed deferentially to the flustered woman. ‘Before the doctor leaps on you with smelling salts, let me reassure you that his speech will not shock. He will refer to our cause as a mission to assist men of the East End and do it in such a way that everyone understands the nature of those we seek to help without being offended.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 5