by Joan Smith
The rivals for his affection put on an excellent cat fight, while the fellow who played the fence was masterful, a walking weasel. We were fairly well concealed in our dark corner, so that we suffered no stares or rudeness from the male audience.
It was no polite play that was put on. The ribaldry was so high at times I had to blush, and try to distract Perdita’s attention. Maciver took such freedoms with the women onstage I actually feared the police would come in and arrest him for putting on an obscene performance. When the two girls were fighting, too, it was arranged so that their dresses were half over their heads, and half down to their waists. Really quite shocking, but all done in a spirit of fun, offending no one but myself, and I was only offended from a sense of duty.
When the curtain came down at intermission, I took the opportunity to quiz Perdita as to what she had been doing all day. She had skipped out of the George the night before as soon as she heard me snore. I do not snore actually, but groan in my sleep sometimes when I am troubled. She nipped over to the Red Lion and joined Tuck’s outfit. She had got a letter from Daugherty in her pocket, left off at the inn before his departure, inviting her. It is almost incredible she had accomplished so much during a brief talk at a window, but I have learned to believe the incredible from her. When she showed them the letter, she was taken aboard with no trouble.
"He has a deal of gall, asking you to join him!”
“I told him I was an actress,” she confessed. “But a very high class tragic actress.”
“Fool! What was the point asking you to join this farcical play then?”
“He said he would write a great tragedy for me. Something like Macbeth, as I already know the lines.”
“Yes, and call it Macheath, as he changed Gay’s character’s name.”
“Meanwhile he said I could sing or dance. They have songs after the ballad opera. He is very nice, and he is not married to Phoebe either, though she is jealous as a green cow of him. Phoebe is the leading lady."
“I don’t suppose you happened to take our money when you left the inn?”
“Good gracious no! I could not leave you stranded and penniless! I forgot all about the money,” she added, to defeat her claim. “I expect we will have to stay overnight at Marlborough, and hire a carriage back to Chippenham tomorrow to await Aunt Maude.”
“The money is gone. Stolen from the inn, every sou of it. I have two shillings to my name. Do you think Daugherty might lend us a few pounds?”
"They are very short of funds. He says the play made Gay rich, and Daugherty poor. I don’t know what it means, but they are going to sleep overnight in their carriages. They aren’t even dormeuses, but they have got pillows and things to make quite a comfortable bed. I’m sure he would let you stay too, if you like,” she offered.
“How exceedingly kind of him!” I answered ironically, but in fact this low means of spending the night was something of a relief, the alternative being the open road or the almshouse.
Perdita did not reply, nor even hear me. Her eyes had strayed off to the side of the hall, where some new arrivals were making a grand and noisy entrance. It was only two people, two gentlemen, but they managed to make such a to do that every head in the place turned to stare at them, including my own. One would think they set out to claim as much notice as possible. They were outfitted in a manner at odds with every other man in the place. They wore fashionable black evening clothes, a triangle of pristine white shirt-front highly visible across the hall. They talked and laughed noisily, not noticing or caring that everyone was observing them. They were not observing much of anything, I think, for they appeared to have taken on a deal of wine. Their barbering, their general get-up and behavior did not speak of the provinces. This pair had come from London, to go slumming in the countryside. They were, unfortunately, both young and handsome.
One was dark and heavy-set, with broad shoulders but a trim waist. The other was taller, more aristocratic-looking somehow, with a thin, chiselled face and a slighter build. Before we had more time to observe them, the curtain opened and Lucy came rushing on to the stage, in a pucker because Macivor had been thrown into gaol. She looked wantonly attractive, in a low-cut white blouse, topped off with a tight-fitting weskit that was pulled in to display her tiny waist, which was made to appear even smaller by the generous swell of bosoms and hips on top and bottom. The city visitors actually let out whistles and howls of appreciation. Their vociferous praise incited the other men in the hall to emulate them. The rest of the play was pure farce. There were catcalls, foot stompings, shouts, whistles, and at the end a shower of coins rained on the stage. I wished I could dart up, collect them, and flee this den of lechery. The newcomers had removed the last vestige of decency from the evening. I knew I was attending an orgy.
"Perdita, we must leave now,” I said. I could not trust the smiles she was throwing to the two bucks. Our only salvation was that they never once removed their eyes from the stage. "Let us go to that carriage you mentioned and make ourselves comfortable.”
"I had better check with Mr. Daugherty first,” she replied.
This sounded reasonable, but I had no thought of letting her go alone. “They don’t like strangers backstage during the performance,” she said.
The older woman who had been sitting with her was the group’s seamstress, who had earlier explained grandly that she was "the wardrobe mistress.” A spade would doubtlessly be termed "an earth-turning utensil” by Tuck’s troupe. "I'll go with her,” she volunteered. "I have to get the costumes and check them out for rips. That Phoebe has her gowns so tight she splits a seam every performance.”
I sunk lower in my seat, disliking to be alone, but I must say no one paid any heed to me. I remained totally unmolested. The other females in the audience were much more interesting. The city bucks had removed across the aisle to set up a flirtation with two local belles, who were much inclined to honor their attentions. The delay between the ballad opera and the songs was longer than seemed necessary. The reason for it was to allow the hawkers to sell their wares. The Tom and Jerry from London bought an entire basket of oranges and nuts, and proceeded to make a great display of tossing them round to the audience.
At last, Mr. Daugherty came through the curtain to announce the songs and singers. My sense of disaster had improved since leaving the inn. I had a premonition, when he started puffing off a new girl, that my third calamity had come, with a vengeance. The new girl was Perdita. The only saving grace was that he had the wits to call her by another name. In honour of the season, he called her Miss April Spring. Really!
She was got up in an outfit that was surely designed for wear in a bordello. It consisted of about two yards of transparent red gauze, sprinkled strategically with white flowers. There was a lamp shining behind her, lest any hard-of-seeing gentleman be deprived of her outline. Her blond hair had been stirred up with a spoon, to sit in beguiling disorder above her painted face. She carried a large fan of white ostrich feathers, which I wished she would hold in front of her body to hide her shame, but she did not. She perched it over her left shoulder, as she began to sing a travesty of a ballad. “Woeful Heart with Grief Oppressed” was her first rendition. It was perfectly wretched. The private dramatic academy had not taught song, only overacting. Her voice was small, high, light and off-key. She was nervous too, which added an air of discomfort to the performance. I hardly knew whether to laugh, cry or hang my head in shame. But as I considered, I thought it might be a good lesson for her if the audience gave her a sound boohing.
Hah! Boohing indeed! They loved her. It was not the voice that was under inspection, but the body. The applause at the song’s end would deafen an auctioneer. It was led by the city bucks, who stood up to give her a standing ovation, while they urged, nay—commanded, the others to do likewise, meanwhile bellowing “More! More!,” as if their lives depended on it. She did not disappoint them. After a hurried and amateurish discussion with the man who beat the piano,
she informed her fans she would sing for them “Deare, if You Change,” followed by “Faire, Sweet, Cruel.” The singing did not improve but got noticeably worse as her voice creaked; then at one point broke under the strain of singing louder and longer than she was used to. She became emboldened as she went along. She began mincing about the stage, batting her fan at the audience, playing with them, rolling her eyes, tossing her head, doing everything but lift her skirts to show them her knees.
It was too much provocation for the city bucks. They could not retain their seats. They edged closer and closer to the stage, creeping down the aisle, till at the last verse of “Faire, Sweet, Cruel” they had their elbows leaning on it. As she made her final bow, the taller of the two bounded up on the stage and followed her off, while the audience roared their appreciation of this piece of lechery. I waited no longer, but bolted out to find my way backstage. I wasn’t a minute too soon. He already had his arms around her, trying to pull her head into line for an attack. I thought she would be frightened, weeping, hysterical. There were rather wild sounds issuing from her lips, but as I got closer, I saw she was laughing, and saw as well that the lecher was tickling her. He was not such a young man, either. I doubt he was a day under thirty, but of course he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. His face was flushed, his voice slurred, his legs unsteady, his manner positively insulting.
"My little pocket Venus!” he crooned, as he tried to focus his rolling eyes on her face.
“Come, at once!” I decreed, pulling her hand and trying to disengage her.
"Not poaching, ma’am,” he assured me, with a foolish smile. "Want to buy her fair and square. Name your price.”
I lifted my reticule and swotted the side of his head, causing him to fall back against the wall, where he shook himself to rights, trying to stand up straight. His condition made it impossible for him to follow when I pulled Perdita off into a room and slammed the door. I leaned my full weight against it, then lit into her, castigating her as everything from a fool to a lightskirt, with the morals of an alley cat. She smiled serenely, and informed me I was jealous, as she preened her mop of tangles with her fingers, and shook out her fan.
At length, Daugherty came, knocked, announced himself, and was allowed to enter.
“His friend has taken him away,” he said apologetically. “We are bothered by these city fellows as we get close to London. They come out to look over the girls, you know, and make nuisances of themselves.”
“Just what are you running here, Mr. Daugherty, a theatrical group or a ring of prostitution?” I demanded angrily. I had never uttered such words before, but from having been associated with the army in my youth, I had learned them at a young age.
"I don’t encourage the fellows. They walk off with my prettiest wenches. Honey attracts flies, ma'am. Always has, always will. The honey is happy enough to find a profitable comb, if it comes to that.”
“And what got into you to climb up on that stage and make a scandal of yourself?” I asked, turning to vent my fury on Perdita. I spoke more sharply, knowing it was nine-tenths my own fault. I had made it possible, when my job was to prevent it.
“You said you wanted to stay overnight. Naturally we must pay our way. Everyone in the group has to. Daugherty does not allow any freeloaders, and we don’t have any money. It was very kind of him to let me work it off,” she said, with a smirk that was intended for a smile in his direction.
“You have turned into a wanton in the space of twenty-four hours!”
“This one is a natural-born performer,” Daugherty told me, in that pious manner of one explaining the Lord’s will to a nonbeliever. “It is best for you to slip her out to the carriage before the fellow sobers up and starts looking for her. He fell asleep in a corner. He is in no position to close tonight.” I did not understand his last sentence, but took it for a piece of theater jargon.
"Will we be safe?”
“Certainly you will. They won’t know you are there. How should they?”
“Why I thought perhaps you used the carriages as dens of vice, when you were not traveling!” I answered sharply.
I spoke in angry jest, but the conscious look that descended on his face hinted I had hit upon the truth. “I won’t let anyone near you,” he promised. “You can have the blue dormeuse to yourselves. Phoebe will have my hair out by the roots, but I’ll palm her off with some story.”
"Come along, then,” I said, taking Perdita by the hand.
“My clothes!” she reminded me. I had not the courage to ask where she had changed them.
Daugherty was obliging enough to go for her gown, and hand it to us, while the monkey was given her petticoat to carry. The monkey too earned its keep. It had some small part in the night’s farce. He was doing his best for us, and really it was not Daugherty’s fault we had fallen into such a nasty pickle, so before leaving, I thanked him very civilly. I could not but wonder, as we entered to make our preparations for bed in a carriage, why he was being so kind. The unhappy thought would intrude that he hoped to have my charge appear again onstage, as she had been such a resounding success. We might count ourselves fortunate if he did not blazon her name and likeness on the broadbills handed out in the village before a performance.
It was dark in the carriage, but the pulling out of the seats to make a bed had already been taken care of. Decadent satin pillows and sheets awaited Phoebe’s pleasure. I had an uneasy inkling we were doing Daugherty as well out of a bed for the night. There was a smell of Macassar hair oil on my pillow that I could not explain otherwise. I did not complain of it to Perdita; she had had enough of licentiousness for one night. We shucked off our gowns, folded them as carefully as possible to lessen the wrinkles, and climbed into the uncomfortable, lumpy bed. Sleep, despite my fatigue, was the farthest thing from my mind. I had my reticule ready to fight off the advance of any rake who stuck his head in at the door, fully expecting it would happen.
I badgered Perdita for a while about her outrageous behavior, but could not give her the raking down she deserved, as it was coming to seem I must allow her to repeat the songs, if we were to have even this minimal comfort tomorrow night. There was no money to return to Chippenham. I could hardly show my face at the inn either, after having left my bill unpaid. Must we wear the clothes on our backs till we could contact Aunt Maude?
“The Altons are in London for sure, are they, Perdita?” I asked.
"Yes, it might be best if we go that far with Mr. Daugherty, then contact them. They will take us to Maude. What do you think?”
“I think it is an abominable plan, but I cannot think of a better one. I wish we had gone back home.”
“Well I do not! I never had such fun in my life. Did you hear the applause?”
“I am not quite deaf. I heard it. I heard that drunken libertine try to buy you too. My God, why did you not beat him?”
“I thought he was rather sweet. Phoebe was jealous as a cat. She thought he was planning to have her.”
“Have her what?”
"You know.”
“Yes, I know, and I should like to discover how you know.”
“We had some very interesting talks in the carriage yesterday.”
"Pray do not feel obliged to repeat them for my edification.”
“Angie says every girl in the group hopes to find a patron when they get to London. Imagine, and I found one the first night.”
“You did not find a patron, miss. You had the poor luck to attract the attention of a drunken rake, who planned to have his way with you. You may be thankful I got here in time."
"I wonder who he is. Phoebe will be sure to find out. She will meet him in the Green Room. There really is no Green Room at Reimer’s Hall, but Angie says wherever they have their party after the show is called the Green Room, like at the Lane or the Garden. Angie is the pretty blonde who plays Polly. I told her you thought at Chippenham she was the leading lady. She was so pleased. She is very nice. She hates Phoebe.”
"She sounds charming.”
The performance in the hall finished at that point. Other singers had followed April Spring. There was suddenly a great commotion as the audience came out, but our carriage was parked at the side of the hall, so that we were a little out of the way of the traffic. We gave up trying to sleep, and peeped out from behind the curtains. The dormeuse had curtains that were drawn across for the night.
“I don’t see him,” Perdita said, referring to her would-be purchaser.
“Good. I hope Phoebe attaches him."
Still I was uneasy till I saw him and his friend leave. I kept taking an occasional look out the window. There was enough merriment and carousing from the Green Room within that sleep was impossible in any case. Half an hour elapsed in this tiring fashion before the two black jackets and white triangles were seen coming out the door. They did not leave at once, but stood, looking around, finally sauntering towards the trail of carriages, of which we made up a part.
“Where the hell could she have gotten to?” the pursuer asked, in vexed accents. His speech was clearer than before. Time or the fresh air was working on his condition.
“Somebody beat you to her, Storn,” his friend roasted him.
“I’ll cut out his heart and make him eat it. God, did you ever see such a piece of woman? Grrr.” He made some low, animal sound in his throat, difficult to put into letters, but its essence was pure lust.
"'Tis pity she’s a whore,” his friend answered.
"Au contraire. A whore, a whore, my kingdom for a whore! Tell me now, was I dead drunk, or was she something out of the ordinary?”