Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1)
Page 1
NOT FROM THE STARS
BOOK ONE
OF
HIS MAJESTY’S THEATRE
CHRISTINA BRITTON CONROY
© Christina Britton Conroy 2017
Christina Britton Conroy has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.
Table of Contents
Forward
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
For more information about Endeavour Press, the UK's leading independent digital publisher, please visit www.endeavourpress.com
For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.
Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.
Forward
When I was a child, my parents bought an antique music box that played sixteen-inch brass disks. My favorite was:
HENRY VIII
Morris Dance
This tune so haunted me, I made up stories, humming it as background music. Years later, I learned it was Edward German’s incidental music, composed for Lyceum Theatre’s production of Henry VIII, in 1892. A few years later, that music was used at Her Majesty’s Theatre.
When I first wrote a story about a Victorian schoolgirl escaping a forced marriage to become an actress, I did not want to upset readers with historical mistakes. I chose a late year, 1903, and a fictional London theatre, HIS Majesty’s. I was told no one taught acting in 1903, still, I imagined a top floor rehearsal hall and an actor-manager who taught acting classes. I also chose a play for the theatre to produce in early 1904, The Tempest.
Soon after finishing my first draft, I was on holiday in London. I buried myself in the London Theatre Museum Library and the Westminster Reference Library. I read a 1903 play list for a real HIS Majesty’s Theatre, and nearly hyperventilated. A delightful librarian explained that the theatre’s name changes with the gender of the monarch, and Edward VI became king in 1901. Many of my inventions turned out to be historically correct.
The theatre’s founder, actor-manager Herbert Beerbohm Tree, taught acting classes which developed into the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.
His one new production in 1904 was The Tempest.
I telephoned Her Majesty’s Theatre, and a kind stage-manager gave me a backstage tour, including the beautiful top floor rehearsal hall.
I read that Herbert Beerbohm Tree was very generous leasing, and even lending his theatre to charities and other theatre companies. My novel is set while his company was actually away, touring America.
Huge thanks go to the London Theatre Museum, Westminster Reference Library, The Old Bailey Reference Library, Wildy & Sons Books, and especially Michael Kilgarreff and the Henry Irving Society.
Special thanks to Betty Anne Crawford at Books Crossing Boarders, and my agents Donna Eastman and Gloria Koehler at Parkeast Literary.
Sonnet XIV
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
Chapter One
Yorkshire, England: December 23, 1885
Emily reached the landing as a scream exploded from the bedroom. She lurched back, crying.
A large elderly woman, sleeves rolled up, hands and apron covered with blood, wiped sweat off her face with the back of her hand. Blood smeared across her forehead. “Where in ‘ell are those towels?” she shouted down the curving staircase.
“Cummin’ Mrs. Graves,” the maid called, stumbling up the stairs.
“How much longer!” demanded a smartly dressed, dark-haired young man from the floor below.
Mrs. Graves scowled at him over the carved banister. “T’ doctor’s doin’ ‘is best, Mr. Roundtree. Ah said y’ should ‘ave fetched ‘im yestiday.” She roughly took the pristine white towels. “Gi’- me - them ‘ere then.” She started back into the room. There was another scream.
Anthony Roundtree stamped his foot. “Just see that she doesn’t die!”
Another scream made him look up and shudder.
“I’m here, sir.” Trembling with fright, breathing heavily, the Anglican priest hurried in, wiping beads of perspiration from his face. “They sent me to pray with a dying woman.” He looked around wide eyed, mouth open, awed by the opulent furnishings. He flashed a weak smile. “Thank you for trusting me.”
Roundtree curled his lip, started up the stairs, and caught his foot in a carpet tear. “Damn it! Everything in this bloody house needs repair.” He shouted back to the priest, “You’ve got a wedding to do first. Hurry up, Vicar!”
The priest stumbled after him. “But, this is most irregular. Shouldn’t I pray with the poor unfortunate…?”
“The poor unfortunate’s the bride, and she’s not dead yet. Hurry man, or we may be too late.” A scream sent them running double time.
“I was told this was a married woman.”
“My brother’s widow. Hurry, damn you!”
The priest entered the room and sunk to his knees. In front of him, in an ornately carved bed, lay Bertha Roundtree, chalk-white, her face contorted in agony. Her legs wide apart, she screamed as the doctor forced a metal instrument inside her. Blood spurted like a fountain, covering the doctor and soaking the fine embroidered bed linen. An old woman, dressed in somber black, clutched Bertha’s hand, and rocked back and forth, quietly crying.
The priest pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting.
Roundtree pulled him to his feet, bellowing, “The marriage certificate, damn you!”
The priest dropped his briefcase, spilling papers in a random pile on the floor.
Roundtree’s quick eye found the appropriate form. He seized it, strode to a polished corner desk, dipped a silver pen into a crystal inkwell, and held the paper over Bertha. “Here, sign this!”
Bertha lurched violently, and the old woman let go of her hand. She stared at the paper. “Was ist das?”
Roundtree shook the pen and paper. A blotch of ink spilled on Bertha’s face. He grabbed her hand, forced the pen into it, and held it to the paper. Writhing in pain, Bertha wildly marked the paper and dropped the pen. Quickly retrievin
g it, he pointed it at the priest. His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. “Sign this, vicar.”
The priest, white-faced and shaking, took the pen. “This is highly irregular. A wedding may only be performed on sacred ground.”
“There’s an old chapel behind the house, that’s close enough. Your buggering my stable boy was highly irregular. Sign, or I’ll tell the bishop and your wife.”
Doctor Vickers gave a mighty heave with his metal forceps. Bertha screamed, and the priest dropped the pen, spurting ink across her abdomen. Roundtree seized the pen and stuck it back in the priest’s hand, holding it steady while he signed the certificate.
“The pronouncement, Father Folen. Say the bloody words!”
The priest mumbled unintelligibly and crossed himself. “Anthony Roundtree, do you take…? Sorry, what’s the lady’s name?”
“Bertha -- yes I do, and so does she.” Roundtree checked the paper and smiled. As he read down the page, his smile disappeared. “Mrs. Graves, come witness this, quickly.”
She stood still. “I’ll never, sir…,”
“You’ll sign it, or your son will go to prison for the money he owes me.”
“Tha’ wouldn’t do that, sir.”
Bertha’s eyes were closing.
“Now! Damn you, woman! Sign!”
Mrs. Graves let out a sob. She signed the blood and ink stained document.
Doctor Vickers pulled a scalpel from his bag. “The mother’s gone, the child may yet survive.” He sliced Bertha open. The only sound was the weeping of the older women.
Father Folen sat against the wall, focused on nothing. Anthony Roundtree bent down, hissing into his face, “Do your final prayers now, man, before the bitch goes to hell.”
The priest staggered to his feet. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son…,”
Suddenly, piercing through the sobs of the women, the cry of a newborn child filled the air. Mrs. Graves held up her hands. “Praise be to God!”
“What is it?” Roundtree demanded.
The doctor, covered in blood and sweat, handed the child to Mrs. Graves. “You have a daughter, sir.”
“Yes, yes! This is perfect.” Roundtree kissed the marriage certificate and sped from the room.
Chapter Two
London, September 1889
“Jerry, thank heaven!” Tommy Quinn screamed with joy and raced at full speed. His hard leather heels clattered over uneven cobbles as he rushed toward Jeremy O'Connell. From a distance, Jeremy's tall slender frame, sleek brown hair, pale skin, and large brown eyes looked stunningly beautiful. The day before, the twenty-five-year-old actor had accepted a tour with famous actor-manager Henry Irving. Tommy was heartbroken and threatened to kill himself. Now, he hurled himself into Jeremy's arms.
Horrified, Jeremy pushed him away. “Not in the street, silly fool. We’ll be arrested.” Guiltily looking in all directions and seeing no one, Jeremy sighed with relief and smiled at his adorable companion. Tommy Quinn was twenty-four. His short, athletic body, large gray eyes, thick brown hair, and mischievous smile, were set off by one crooked tooth.
Jeremy shrugged. “Irving’s offer is very tempting. The money is good and the roles first-rate. The problem is, he recreates old productions. I could be forced to parrot his last actor, and not allowed an original thought. I am better off staying here.”
“You’ve got Henry The Fifth.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Tyler used Hal as a bribe. He is making me play cloying Claudio as penance.”
Unable to resist Tommy’s sweet eyes, Jeremy gave him a playful hug, glanced over his shoulder, and saw a terrifying flash of navy-blue. A uniformed Bobby marched towards them, swinging his nightstick. They sprang apart. The Bobby winked an eye and swaggered by.
Jeremy shuddered. “That was too close.”
They walked a block to Henry Street, through the stage-door of the Strand Theatre and downstairs to the rehearsal room. The worn floorboards were grimy. An ancient coal stove, and dozens of actors puffing acrid cigarettes, clouded the air and yellowed the walls.
Fred, the grizzled stage-manager, sat behind his rickety desk, squinting through scratched spectacles. He pushed a sign-in sheet and pen towards Jeremy. “Heard you might be eloping with Henry Irving.”
Jeremy sent Fred a twisted smile and scribbled his name. He grimaced at a pile of cloth-bound script, took one for each play, sat in a rickety chair, and tentatively opened Much Ado About Nothing.
“Mr. O’Connell? I’m Katherine Stewart, playing Hero.”
Jeremy glanced up at sparkling china-blue eyes, a pert nose, and rosebud lips framed by long, honey-blond hair.
“You’re a wonderful actor. I saw you on tour in The Bachelor’s Dilemma.” Her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Jeremy flinched. “You saw that piece of fluff? Well, I am glad you enjoyed it.” He stood and offered his hand. “How-do-you-do?”
She reached her hand and an armload of scripts clattered to the floor. “Oh, dear! Dancers are the world’s clumsiest people.”
Jeremy helped collect her scripts and noticed that her figure was slim and shapely.
Her excited words rushed out. “This is my first engagement, as an actress, that is. I’ve never spoken lines, but I’ve been on stage since I was a baby.” Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes. “It was Variety and Review, I’m afraid. A family dance act. They’re vexed with me for leaving. I have to send money home to make up.”
“Mr. Tyler is paying you enough to send money home?”
She nodded happily. “A guinea a week.”
“And for that princely sum, I suppose you are providing your own costumes?”
“Not for Hero… but for the supernumeraries.” She smiled hopefully, “…and I’m covering four principals.”
Jeremy shook his head in disgust, as Fred carried over a small table. “Take a seat, everyone. Mr. Tyler just arrived.”
All the actors scrambled, scraping chairs into a slapdash semicircle. David Tyler entered the room. Fred handed him the sign-in sheet.
Katherine sat motionless watching Tyler’s every move. He was a striking, elderly gentleman, with an almost military bearing. His well-tailored suit hung perfectly. Since he was no longer an actor wearing makeup and false beards, he had grown elegant sideburns that blended with his thick gray hair. The only men in London without facial hair were actors.
Tyler addressed the company. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I trust you have met our newcomers… Miss Stewart?” Katherine stood, smiled sweetly, and sat down. “Mr. Killen?” A good-looking young man stood, smiled, and sat. “We shall read through Much Ado’ this morning and put it on its feet this afternoon.”
Shakespeare’s play is marvelous, but the rehearsal hall was stifling. The moment they were dismissed Jeremy snatched Tommy outside.
Katherine followed with her arms full of scripts. She squinted against the bright sunlight, then stopped when a young man carrying a large suitcase sped toward her. Jeremy recognized his old friend, actor Simon Camden--a delightful surprise.
Simon was brash, funny, blond, and beautiful. Jeremy’s very first season, Simon had played Mercutio to his Romeo. Formally a ballet dancer, Simon’s body was sinewy, supple, and very strong. They had shared dressing-rooms on the tour. Even seeing Simon in layers of traveling clothes, Jeremy remembered the adorably soft blond curly hairs sprinkling his arms and chest. They darkened slightly below his belly and around his well-endowed organ. Much to Jeremy’s disappointment, Simon had had no interest in sharing that with him. That fantastic piece was gifted only to ladies, and it was gifted constantly.
Simon dashed toward pretty Katherine Stewart barking, “Kathy, Kathy, I auditioned for Henry Irving’s tour and he engaged me on the spot. Good thing I hadn’t unpacked.”
Katherine’s pretty mouth dropped open. “B’But, you just returned last night. You said you were going to find an engagement in London, that we would stay together.”
He shrugged it off. “Darling, you’
ve got an engagement and lodgings, you’ll be fine.”
“But, that boarding house is horrible.”
“We’ve lived in worse places.”
“We were with my family. I’ve never stayed anywhere alone.”
“I’m sorry, darling, I’ll miss my train.”
“Then miss your sodding train!”
He dropped his suitcase and flung his arms around her. “Darling, when I get back, marry me. Then we’ll be together for…,”
“Marry you?” Stiff and fragile as a wounded doe, she clutched her scripts and hurried down the road.
Simon called after her, “Kathy…” She vanished around a corner.
He shrugged, hurried a few steps, collided with Tommy and Jeremy, and laughed. “My God, it’s a poufs’ convention.”
Jeremy forced a scowl. “Bloody hell, Simon. Watch where you’re going.”
“Listen you lot, I’m touring with Henry Irving: The Master. Can you believe it?”
Tommy and Jeremy exchanged knowing looks.
“I’m late for my train.” He hurried off, then hurried back. “Jerry, you can save my life.”
“I’m not sure I want to.” Jeremy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Katherine Stewart--you saw her just now--she was at rehearsal. You must have met her.”
Jeremy chuckled. “Oh, yes, the delicious new ingénue. What about her?”
“She’s my Kathy. My dancing partner, when I was in Variety.”
“That girl is the ‘Kathy’ you have written letters to, all these years?”
”Yes.”
“The girl you say you are going to marry?”
“Yes.”
“Good grief!”
Simon swung a pocket-watch into his hand and checked the time. “I promised to stay with her, but this tour… with Irving.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“Take care of her for me.” Tommy burst out laughing and Simon glowered. “Not like that, you slag.” Simon jammed the watch back into his pocket. “Look Jerry, you always mother-hen the new chaps.”