One afternoon, Jeremy settled behind the kidney-shaped desk in his office, reviewing a pile of fan letters. Most, he skimmed and tossed into a bin. He and Katherine kept the secretary supplied with pre-autographed note cards. He skimmed one letter, stopped, checked the signature, and carefully reread it from the top. A chap named Rory Cookingham asked about Petruchio in Taming Of The Shrew.
“Why did Shakespeare write Petruchio’s excellent speeches in fine, upper-class prose, then bequeath him the personality of a slovenly lout?”
Jeremy cringed. He had made Petrucio a slovenly lout because it made audiences laugh. It was his choice, not Shakespeare’s. Obviously, it had not made Rory laugh.
The next observation was easier to counter.
“Kate and Petrichio fall so honestly in love, I think it is only possible for a married couple, like you and Miss Stewart, to play those roles to perfection.”
Smirking to himself, Jeremy lied, writing that he had toured with two different actresses playing Kate, and their love scenes appeared equally real to their audiences.
Rory continued with:
“The next week, I was amazed to see Miss Stewart, as The Duchess Of Malfi, fall in love, equally convincingly, with a dissimilar actor. I understand that acting upon the stage is just that, but I am also curious. Most men would not willingly place their wives into the arms of other men...”
Jeremy winced again. The Duchess Of Malfi was the tragic love story of an older woman and a younger man. At thirty-four, Katherine was blossoming into middle-age. The twenty-five-year-old actor Jeremy cast opposite her was a striking black-Irishman called Owen Freeman. A pompous ass off-stage, Owen was a fine actor and their on-stage chemistry was electric. Believing Katherine was long overdue some manly attention, Jeremy engineered Owen into her bed. Since she did not really like him, she was well serviced, without the risk of falling in love and leaving Jeremy.
Cookingham’s final questions were about historical and geographic inaccuracies, and outright mistakes in Jeremy’s translation from the Greek in Ulysses. Jeremy answered these questions without much consideration, and days later received another letter, questioning his hasty answers. Simultaneously annoyed and thrilled that someone actually cared, and was clever enough to challenge him, a long dormant spark of intellectual curiosity set Jeremy’s brain ablaze.
That letter was followed by another, then another. Each time this remarkable scholar asked difficult questions and made astute observations that forced Jeremy to restudy topics he took for granted.
One afternoon, Jeremy and his valet Max dragged boxes from a storage closet. Jeremy emptied a crate, and ancient leather bindings crashed to the floor. Jeremy searched through ancient textbooks like a squirrel hunting for a nut.
Evan dove onto the floor beside him. Dust blew up and the boy rubbed his blue eyes. “What are you looking for, Daddy? Can I help?”
“My Greek dictionary. I haven’t used it since university, but it should be here somewhere”
Max coughed. “Could this be it?” He held up a much worn, dark green volume.
Jeremy took it quickly. “Yes. Excellent.” He sped to his study and paged through the dictionary. Rory’s letter lay on the blotter.
Evan was close on his heels. “Can I see?”
Jeremy stretched his arm so Evan could climb into his lap, pulled the letter closer, and compared the handwritten Greek on the stationary to the printed Greek in the dictionary.
Evan strained to see the comparison. “What does it say?”
Jeremy sighed. “It says that Ulysses traveled over the water. In my staging, Ulysses swims the river. Since the correct translation is ‘over’ and not ‘through,’ Ulysses could not possibly swim ‘over’ the water. He must have taken a boat or a raft of some sort. My staging is nonsense.”
Evan studied the odd pen marks. “But you told me that Ulysses wasn’t a true story.”
“That is correct. It is a myth.”
“Then, what does it matter, if the translation is wrong? It’s all made up, anyway.”
Jeremy chuckled and kissed the soft platinum-blond hair on top of his head. “That is something your mother would say. And you are correct. Still, it bothers me. If this Oxford chap noticed the inaccuracy, others may have as well. He has listed two other mistakes in the translation. I have no doubt that he is correct.”
Evan read the name at the bottom of the letter. “Rory Cook-ing-ham. What a funny name.”
“It is, rather. But the chap is very clever. I look forward to his letters. His questions keep me on my toes.”
“He’s not as clever as you are. You’re the smartest man in the entire world.”
Pleased by the boy’s blind adoration, Jeremy chortled and gave him a squeeze. “Thank you, darling, but I am not the smartest man in the world, not by a long shot.”
“But you are. You know everything.”
“I did not know that Ulysses traveled over the water.” Evan’s narrow shoulders heaved unhappily, and Jeremy laughed. “I am sorry, but there are a great many scholars, statesmen and clergymen who know more than I do. Of course only God knows everything.” Evan looked upset and Jeremy felt lost. “I am possibly the greatest actor in the world. It is also possible that my productions are the best in the world. Of course, your Uncle Simon would argue both of those suppositions.”
Evan whispered, “You’re the best father in the world. Even if you’re not my real father.” He put his thin arms around Jeremy’s neck. They held each other tight.
“That one I will accept. Thank you.”
Evan looked back at the letter. “Mr. Cookingham must be very clever.”
“Indeed. He is.”
Oxford
“Cooky! You’ve got mail!”
“Thanks, Plunky.” Rory took three envelopes from his friend and started upstairs. The first was a letter from his mother and the next from his eldest brother. The postmark on the third read: London / Haymarket / His Majesty’s Theatre. His palms were moist as he carefully broke the seal. With a pounding heart, he read bold words, written in the florid hand of Jeremy O’Connell.
Never expecting a response to his letter, Rory was thrilled to receive four pages of detailed answers to his questions, as well as Jeremy’s personal philosophies on literary and historical points. In his research, Rory discovered that the original 1594 title was THE TAMING OF A SHREW. Jeremy wrote back, saying that was an entirely different play, possibly written by a different playwright, nearly thirty years before Shakespeare’s 1623 play, THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. This sent Rory back to the library, where he discovered the character of “Petruchio” in still another, 1597 play, THE TAMER TAMED. Each question was answered and each answer raised another question.
Chapter Fifteen
May 1902
HIS MAJESTY’S THEATRE
TODAY AT 3:00
Mr. JEREMY O’CONNELL
Miss KATHERINE STEWART
FINAL PERFORMANCE of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
Today was extraordinary for two reasons:
First, the final curtain fell on the final performance of an almost sold out run of Jeremy’s third production of The Taming Of The Shrew.
Second, Jeremy was finally going to meet Rory Cookingham. After weeks of corresponding, Jeremy had invited Rory to tea.
Jeremy sat in his dressing gown, removing his makeup, wondering if Rory was as nervous as he was. A portion of the hall reflected in his mirror, and a short blond boy stood waiting in the corridor. No one else was in sight.
A few minutes later, he checked the reflection again. The boy was still there. No -- it couldn’t be. The boy nervously wiped his upper lip and pushed thick blond hair off his forehead. Jeremy stared at the reflection. “Mr. Cookingham?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy stood to attention.
“Do come in.” Could that scholar’s mind be lodged inside this boy’s body?
“Thank you, sir.”
Rory Cookingham walked into Jeremy’s dressing room and sm
iled. An oriental rug covered the floor and green velvet drapes swayed against the partially opened window. He looked over Jeremy’s carved wooden furniture, polished stove, exquisite china tea set, gilt mirrors, framed photos and letters. Symmetrically hung clothing, an immaculate dressing table with perfect rows of grease sticks, charcoal pencils, and fake hair for moustaches and beards completed this tiny jewel of a room.
A nervous laugh escaped his throat. “Forgive me, sir, but I think I’ve just walked through the looking glass.”
After a few casual pleasantries, Jeremy finished dressing. Rory followed him from the theatre and across the street to the Red Lion Pub. Jeremy pushed open wide stained-glass and mahogany doors that led into a large L-shaped room. The floors and some of the walls were paneled in the same dark wood. Red flocking covered other walls and red cloths covered the tables. Padded leather chairs stood around each table, and booths with leather benches stood against the walls. Huge carved mirrors, paintings, and signed photographs of theatrical and musical personalities warmed the pub’s elegant atmosphere. Wonderful smells poured from the kitchen.
When Jeremy and Rory walked up to the bar, a slight man with a huge gray beard nodded from behind the polished counter. “Afternoon Mr. O’Connell, Sir. Wha’ can I getcha both?”
Pretending to watch the barman pour their drinks, Jeremy inventoried the young scholar. It never occurred to him that Rory could be short. He was only slightly taller than Katherine. He looked very fit. His suit was cut from soft, expensive wool, his collar was new, his tie immaculate, and his thick, fair hair beautifully cut. They took their drinks, then moved to the back, through a room full of theatre patrons. Jeremy led Rory to a corner booth, where they could have privacy.
The second they were seated, Rory’s question bubbled out. “Please, sir, was it my imagination, or were you and Miss Stewart different, today? I mean, in my letter I asked…”
“I remember what you asked. I also remember that I chose not to answer the question.”
Rory’s heart pounded. “I beg your pardon, sir. I hope I didn’t offend.”
Jeremy stifled a smile. “When one party is correct, offense is usually given to the other party, who is usually incorrect. In this case, Mr. Cookingham, you were correct.
Rory chuckled and Jeremy smiled back.
A waitress carried over their dinners, and Rory dove his fork into a steaming steak and ale pie. Jeremy elegantly de-boned half a chicken. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Mr. Cookingham?”
“Yes, sir.” He answered with his mouth full.
“How old are you?”
Nearly spitting out his food, Rory wiped his mouth with his serviette. “Nineteen sir. I was pushed ahead in school.”
“Pushed ahead? I dare say you flew. Of course, if your letters are any example of your spoken dialogue, your relentless questions must drive your masters mad.”
Rory chuckled nervously. “You are correct, sir. It was like that at school. At university, it is quite the opposite. They chide the lads who don’t ask questions. And most don’t. I had thought that Oxford chaps would all be brilliant.” Jeremy smiled, so Rory plowed ahead. “I am so grateful you answered my letters. You taught me so much. I had seen lots of plays, but it never occurred to me that an actor could be… um…,”
“Could be a scholar?”
“Yes sir.”
Jeremy leaned back, half-closing his eyes. “I have enjoyed your letters. More than I can say. I am not used to being challenged. Now, I wish that you had seen ‘Shrew,’ and given me your critique a year ago. You noticed I had lost the wonder of seeing Kate for the first time.” He shook his head. “Living with a beautiful woman… you can take her for granted. Never mind. It is time we put ‘The Shrew’ to bed. We have been playing her for years and we have gotten very stale.”
“But, how did you do it, sir? Today…” He stared up with large blue eyes. “How did you find that ‘wonder’?”
He was adorable, but not a pouf. Jeremy crossed his arms to keep his hands from doing something embarrassing. “Regaining wonder, Mr. Cookingham, or any feeling, is an actor’s job, an actor’s technique. In its simplest form, it is replaying memory.”
Rory took a moment to digest the phrase. “‘Replaying… memory’?” He spoke slowly, visualizing his words. “When I ‘replay’ the phonograph, I hear the same music a second time. The music is imprinted on the cylinder.”
Jeremy smiled. I love the way this boy thinks.
Rory concentrated. “Once words are printed on a page, they remain unchanged forever. Music can be replayed from manuscript.” He looked at Jeremy. “But memory, sir? It is certainly imprinted, but can it be, replayed?”
Jeremy leaned forward. “What is a memory? Nothing more than a catalogue of feelings and sensations, sights, sounds, smells. What are you feeling right now?”
Rory coughed and wiped his hands.
“We both know that you are feeling nervous as a cat, but how are those nerves manifest?” He stared blankly, so Jeremy gestured to the soiled serviette he was clutching.
He let go of the cloth and looked at his hands. “My palms are sweating, and I gulped my food like a pig.”
Jeremy chuckled. “Not quite like a pig, but that is a good start. How else is your body reacting?”
Rory rolled his shoulders. “My neck’s like a block.” He rubbed it. “I’m sweating there, too, and from my forehead.”
“Good.”
He concentrated. “My stomach’s in a knot, and I don’t think I’ve taken a breath for the last hour.”
Jeremy laughed loudly. “Good. Very good. Now, should you ever need to play a scene where you were meeting someone terrifying, you can remember those feelings and replay them.”
“Now I’m blushing, as well.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But how do I remember these feelings? How do I, replay them?”
“Practice m’ boy. Acting technique, like any other technique, takes practice. And, I would give you exercises, if you were an actor, in my class.” Jeremy tossed his serviette on the table and stood up. “It seems a pleasant evening and I believe you have some time before your train. Shall we walk?”
“Yes, sir, please. I’ll fetch the coats.” Rory hurried across the room.
Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. Rory Cookingham was a remarkable young man. He worshiped Jeremy, for the moment. Soon enough, he would discover Jeremy's secret life, feel betrayed, and hate him. It had happened before. Jeremy decided to send Rory on his way. When the young man returned with the coats and smiled with guileless adoration, Jeremy’s resolve evaporated. He would never be able to send Rory on his way.
Outside the pub they were stopped by the piping voice of young Evan. Running at full tilt, the boy’s white-blond hair blew back. “Daddy!” he stopped and panted, “Mummy’s looking for you.”
Jeremy put his hand on Evan’s head. “Mr. Cookingham, allow me to present Master O’Connell. Master O’Connell, Mr. Cookingham.”
Rory shook Evan’s small hand. “I enjoyed your performance in Ulysses.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cookingam. I read your letter about the Greek being wrong. Daddy looked up the words in the dictionary. He said that…,”
“Jerry darling, please…,” Katherine walked up briskly. “I must have an answer, just a simple yes, or no.” Rory saw Katherine and looked as if he were in love.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Oh bother, Katie! I suppose I must go.”
“No! You must not. I am perfectly capable of going alone, but I must respond tonight.”
“Miss Stewart, may I present Rory Cookingham, from Oxford.”
She smiled and extended her hand. “How-do-you-do Mr. Cookingham. Jerry’s so enjoyed your letters. Do keep them coming.”
Rory kissed her hand. “You are too kind, Miss Stewart. I have enjoyed your performances, very much.”
“And, you are kind to say so.”
*
Rory Cookingham entered the rehearsal room
to audit Jeremy O’Connell’s acting class. These sessions were private. Visitors were not allowed. Rory was a young, attractive stranger, so many sniggered that he must be, “Jerry’s new lad.”
Twenty assorted actors and actresses clowned, sulked, or studied scripts. Most were in their twenties and thirties. A few were past middle age. The few as young as Rory were shabbily dressed apprentices. Rory wore perfectly fitting, fine tailored clothes.
The room was large and bare with three rows of sturdy chairs set up as an audience. The varnished floor was swept clean, the walls and domed windows were immaculate. As the wall clock struck 1:00, the clip of Jeremy’s sharp leather heels set everyone scurrying into chairs.
Jeremy marched into the room looking stunning in an immaculate gray suit. He spotted Rory at the back, glowered, then proceeded to a small writing table at the side of the front row. Rory’s chin dropped and he looked appropriately embarrassed. Jeremy had not forbidden him to come. His last letter had said, “…attending my class would be a waste of your valuable time.” Jerry sat down, crossed his legs, and read a list of scenes lying on the table. “I see we are to be force-fed another dose of Julius Caesar.” He looked at an actor in the crowd. “Brave of you, Mr. Tanner.”
The actor stammered, “I’… I’ve been working on it, sir. It’s loads better. You’ll like it today, that’s sure.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “You waited until the end, last week, so you should go first this week, but I would rather start with anything else. I am sure you do not mind.” He read further. “Oedipus, Alchemist, Trelawny, Midsummer, Dolls’ House -- Dolls House? Miss Tate, however, were you able to pry that script away from Charles Carrington?”
“I shagged him.”
The room exploded with laughter. Looking shocked and excited, Rory strained to see the young lady who had spoken. Jeremy looked down his elegant nose. “Very resourceful, Miss Tate.” As he read further, his lips spread into a reluctant smile. “As You Like It, Miss McCarthy and Mr. Burns. Good. Let us start with that.”
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 8