by Joan Smith
“Mr. Alton is taking us to stay with friends,” I told Daugherty.
“You can’t leave yet!”
“That’s what you think!” I told him, and went to get our bonnets and pelisses.
He came trotting out to the hallway after me. “You’re making a big mistake, Molly,” he began, grabbing onto my elbow to detain me. “Alton is nobody. Don’t you know who Mr. Brown is?”
“No, but I know what he is, and we are not interested.”
“It is all arranged! He’ll have my neck in a sling if she’s gone.”
“Do you mean to stand there and tell me you have cooked up some deal for Brown to come here?” I demanded. “Mick Daugherty, whoever said there were no snakes in Ireland was mistaken! It was done the night you took him into the blue carriage, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”
"I meant to share the blunt with you. I knew she’d give in to him, sooner or later. No point antagonizing him, and you don’t have her under contract. She told me so. He was generous—gave me a hundred pounds. I have to produce her.”
My first violent burst of anger gave way to mirth. How capital it was, that Mr. Brown had been hoodwinked. So insistent, so overbearing, underhanded, every vile thing you can name, and we were outwitting him. When he came, his April would be gone without a trace, for we would naturally not leave any forwarding address. His staying away from the Green Room for those few nights had been a ruse to calm my nerves, to get the Incomparable safely delivered to London, with no bother or fuss. "You are not going to produce her, Daugherty. Better produce his hundred pounds, instead.”
“I’ve spent half of it. I’ll give you the rest.”
“No, thanks. Maybe he’ll be satisfied with a pound of flesh instead. I know you are familiar with the works of Shakespeare, but I have a variation to suggest. Let him cut out your tongue; it will save you a deal of future trouble.”
“Where are you going? Give me the address.”
“Send him to Carleton House. If April is not there, he is bound to find some plump bird to his taste.”
Alton and Perdita came into the hall. I went to the doorway of the parlor to bid all my old friends a last farewell. My anger with Daugherty robbed me of any feeling of regret at leaving, not that there would be much, but shared adventures had forged a bond between some of us. I felt a pang in particular for Angie, to know she was mired forever in this sort of existence, at such a young age. I must say she looked perfectly content with her lot, though. She was playing with Cathleen, already forgetful of us when we left.
We squeezed into John’s stylish sporting curricle and were off, free of all the ignominies of the theatrical world at last. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Daugherty in the middle of the road, checking to see what route we took. I was sorry John had given his real name, but in the commotion it might have escaped Daugherty’s notice. He would not know where in the city to find him in any case. I did not think we would hear of Mr. Brown again.
"Moira, I wish you will tell me what is going on,” John said, shouting over the noise of the carriage, the horses, and the busy streets. “I can’t make heads or tails of Perdie’s story. What were you doing with that pack of pimps and trollops?”
His youthful face was red with annoyance, while his brown eyes bulged with shock. “It is a long story, John. Let us wait till we reach the quiet of your saloon. How is your mama?” How quickly the trite, polite phrases returned to mind.
“Sick as a dog,” he answered frankly. “Got a dose of this wicked flu that is going round. Hope I don’t pick it up from her, for I am due to attend a house party on the weekend. Leave very soon to go to Grifford’s place, in Kent. They are trying to find a parti for that ugly patch of a daughter that has been hanging on the family tree till she’s wilted. Half the men in London are going to look her over.”
“You can’t go,” Perdita said calmly. “You will have to take us to Brighton instead, to visit my Aunt Maude.”
“The devil I will! Millie Grifford may look like a dog, but she is the richest squinter in the country. I’ll try my hand with her, like all the others. Favors me, to say the truth. Can’t imagine how it came about, for I never paid the least heed to her. Didn’t realize she was so rich, till Tony tipped me the clue.”
“We can borrow a carriage and team from John, and go to Brighton by ourselves,” I said to placate my charge. “John can lend us a footman for safety’s sake. The trip can be made in less than a day.”
“Brighton, did you say?” John shouted. “Bromley Hall, Grifford’s place, is only ten miles from Brighton. I could pop you two off, on down the coast and double back. Mean to say, if Prinney made it in four and a half hours, I can do it in less. Mind we must leave at the crack of dawn, for the extra twenty miles, I shan’t arrive till all hours. Daresay old Mrs. Grifford won’t care for it, but she’ll be tucked between her sheets long before I get there. I can let on I pulled in shortly after dinner."
"I am sorry to put you to so much trouble,” I said, while Perdita overrode my gratitude with a pert, "Good, then it is all settled. Is the Prince Regent at his Brighton Pavilion?”
“How the deuce should I know where the old whale is?” was John’s reply. “I don’t swim with his school. Got a piece of excellent news for you, Perdie.”
“What is it?” she asked, interested.
“Got taken up by the FHC.”
“What is the FHC?”
“What is the FHC?” he asked, then repeated it a few times, in ever rising tones of incredulity, till I was very curious to hear what magnificent honor was his. “Why it is the Four Horse Club. Top of the trees. Dandy outfit, dotted tie, striped waistcoat. You will notice I am driving a team of bays. Had to change my grays in on ‘em. Papa, dashed skint, would not buy me another pair, and of course you cannot be driving anything but bays to Salt Hill.”
“This looks like a nifty pair of prads,” Perdie congratulated him.
As Alton drove us through the lively section of town, Perdita turned a wistful face to me. “Do you think we might stay with Mrs. Alton, instead of going to Brighton, Moira?” she asked.
“No,” John answered bluntly, while I jollied her along with tales of the vastly superior company she would enjoy at the seaside resort town.
“We must stay long enough to have some gowns made up, in any case,” she pointed out, not without some reason. The gowns in which we sat were closer to rags, well soiled rags at that. “And you must lend me some money, John, for we are flat busted.”
“Where did you pick up such an expression?” he asked suspiciously. The language he spoke himself was only nominally the King’s English, but he expected better of ladies. Truth to tell, I found myself cropping out into Theater English more often than was prudent. Their jargon was lively and descriptive; it stuck too easily in the memory, to pop out at injudicious moments to betray our recent past.
“Perdita spends too much time in the stables,” I said, to fob him off, till I decided how much he must be told.
* * *
Chapter 7
Despite her wicked dose of the flu, Mrs. Alton was not in bed. She sat in her yellow saloon, lounging on a chaise longue, with a pile of white cards by her side, trying to determine the likely duration of her illness, and what cards she could accept. She awaited our arrival, as John had told her he was picking us up. The odd manner of his doing so might have raised a query in a normal mother’s breast. Not in Mrs. Alton’s. It was her main object in life to attach Perdita and her fortune for her only son. She overlooked every flaw in her darling neighbor; even when the flaw escalated into a huge fault, she was quick to lay the blame in another’s dish.
“What a delightful surprise!” she chirped, adjusting the ribbons of an overly ornate cap that held her gray curls in place. She was in her late forties, a plain countrywoman who aped city manners for two months a year, when her squire brought her to London for the Season. “You catch me all at sixes and sevens, my dear. Old Mr. Flu has got hold of me, but
I shan’t give in. Only let me recuperate for a day or two, and I shall show you all the sights. G’day, Miss Greenwood,” she added, acknowledging my presence.
We made our curtsies from a distance, as we neither of us wished to contract her ailment. “How does your papa go on, and his new bride?”
“Fine,” Perdita answered carelessly, while I readied my tale to account for our singular appearance in her saloon. Not a single word of my story was necessary. “We are en route to Aunt Maude in Brighton, and stopped off to visit you for a few days. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Why, my dear, I could not be happier. I only mind that I am not well enough to show you the sights immediately, today. But John will be my stand-in,” she added at once, with a commanding glance to her son.
“Haven’t a second to spare, Mama,” he answered very quickly. “Got an appointment with Stultz in half an hour.”
“Oh, my dear, I wish you would reconsider and see Weston. The whole of London recognizes your man at a glance when you frequent Stultz. Though he does give you a very handsome shoulder. Perdita will visit me till your appointment is over.”
“Have a date at No. 13 Old Bond after that,” John informed her. “Jackson’s Parlor, you must know.”
"That's all right,” Perdita said sweetly. “We want to see a modiste this afternoon in any case, Mrs. Alton. We accidentally left our luggage behind, at Chippenham, and Moira lost all our money, so we must have some new gowns ordered, if you will loan us a few guineas."
Even this unlikely tale raised no eyebrows on the hopeful mother-in-law’s face. “I shall call my woman. Put it on my bill,” she said grandly. “She has her shop on Old Bond, John. Drop off word we want Miss McGavin to come to us, with some samples of her materials.”
She ordered tea, and the three of us chatted while John dashed off to his tailor, with a casual word over his shoulder that he would be home for dinner, and he was looking forward to hearing what hobble Perdie had fallen into, by Jove, and the story had better be good or he’d turn her over his knee and give her a sound thrashing.
The two of us, Perdita and myself, spent a delightful hour scrubbing the grime of the road from our bodies. We leaned shamelessly on Mrs. Alton’s unquestioning charity to borrow linens, dressing gowns and stockings till our outfits had been hastily washed and pressed dry. By the time we returned belowstairs, Miss McGavin had arrived, carrying her samples and fashion magazines in a black patent leather bag. Our own gowns had laundered well enough to preclude requiring an afternoon outfit. What would be necessary was one gown for evening wear. Perdita and Mrs. Alton rifled happily through swatches of silks, lutestrings, muslins and crepes to select outfits unfit for a pre-deb.
"Perdita must wear white, must she not?” I reminded the matron.
"To be sure she must. What a pity. This pink would suit her so well, but she cannot wear colors till she is out. That is not to say you cannot enliven your gowns with flowers and ribbons, my dear,” she added, to palliate the blow. "With a little garnishing, a white can look very fashionable.” The material chosen was unexceptionable: a white peau de soie, but the quantities of ornament chosen caused a fear my charge would look like a fruit salad on a white plate when the thing was finished.
My hope to curtail the selection to one gown for evening wear prospered. “John is taking us to Brighton the day after tomorrow, you recall. Miss McGavin won’t have time for more than one each. Indeed I don’t see how she is to get the two made up in such a short space."
“I have a half dozen girls working for me. The city ain’t busy yet. A month from now I could not accommodate you, but it happens I am slack at the moment. These will be ready for you by tomorrow, ladies, in the afternoon, in time for your evening party,” the modiste assured us.
I selected for myself a plain gown in pale green silk. Spring was not the season for a more sedate color. Or perhaps my dramatical sensibilities had been activated by Phoebe and her underlings. In any case, I splurged and had it rutched round the hem, with ribbons to set off the rutchings. How it was ever to be paid for was still a mystery to me.
Perdita’s comment that we "would decide on others when you return” made me realize she was toying with the notion of extending our visit.
As her guests had to dine in their afternoon gowns, Mrs. Alton elected to wear her dressing gown to the table. Only John sat down in proper style. He looked handsome and urbane in his black jacket, but the clothing most assuredly did not make the man.
"So what is all this faradiddle about a traveling theater?” he asked me in a quiet aside over dinner, while the other ladies discussed plays and gossip.
I filled him in on our adventure, while he turned several shades paler, and I did not tell him the whole, either. There was no mention of Perdita actually singing for her supper, or myself stealing and receiving shameful propositions. "Good God, if word of this ever gets out, she would be finished before she started. London would be convulsed for a fortnight. Who the devil was this Mr. Brown fellow who was chasing after her? Ought to have his daylights darkened.”
"We could not discover his real name. His friend called him Storn, on that first night he showed up. I believe Stornaway was the name of his mother’s home, if I recall aright.”
"Surely to God she hasn’t attached Stornaway! No, it could not be, though your description sounds marvelous like him.”
“Why could it not be he, then? And who is he?”
“Worst rake in London.”
"That’s him.”
“Thing is, he is on the verge of an engagement with Lady Dulcinea something or other.”
“There was mention of a Dulcinea,” I said, harking back to our first encounter again. "That was the name his friend mentioned. The other fellow was called Staff, a nickname obviously.”
“Stafford. Yes, it was Stornaway right enough. Confirms it. Tom and Jerry they are called locally, after Cruikshank’s cartoons, you know. A pair of young bloods, prime for any sport that offers, though I must own I never heard of him trying to seduce a lady before. A young lady, I mean, like Perdie.”
“They did not know she was a lady.”
“Lord no, how should they, and the pair of you rattling through the countryside in company with . . ." He stopped suddenly. “At least they ain’t in town,” he said, in a more cheerful mood. “Haven’t seen nor heard of ‘em, and you would if they was here. I’ll whistle you two off to Brighton day after tomorrow.”
“I don’t suppose we could go tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.
“Out of the question. I have a dozen things lined up, but I’ll spare an hour to take you for a drive in the afternoon. Wouldn’t do me a bit of harm to be seen with a decent looking girl like Perdie. Would please Mama. I don’t want the silly chit taking the notion she has attached me, mind.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I told him, with a look down the table to her place. As she had not spared him a single glance in a quarter of an hour, it did not seem possible this notion was in her mind.
“Shall we have a few hands of cards to pass the evening, ma’am?” Perdita asked her hostess when dinner was through.
"Delightful," Mrs. Alton answered, while I examined her for possible contamination. I disliked to be so close to her during her illness, but I believe she was recuperating and was, hopefully, no longer in danger.
The cards were no sooner dealt than there was a hammering at the front door. "I cannot be seen like this!” Mrs. Alton exclaimed, jumping up. She made a hurried exit by the back door of the yellow saloon. Perdita and I were not far behind her. Wearing our afternoon gowns for evening was not our reason for leaving. There was an arrogant sound to that knock that set my hair on end. I had a premonition it would be Lord Stornaway who sought entrance. To verify it, I hid behind the door, while Perdita and Mrs. Alton darted upstairs.
Lord Stornaway was alone. His friend, Stafford, was left out of this visit. “Evening, sir,” John said, his face as red as a beet. I g
ot a narrow view of them as the guest was shown in.
“I am Lord Stornaway. You, if my information is accurate, are Mr. Alton,” the caller said, in a bold, clipped way.
“That’s right. Will you have a seat, milord?”
“No. What I have to say and do won’t take long. I want April.”
“What? Who?”
“April Spring, the singer from Tuck’s.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” John said, in true confusion, for I had not told him our second names, nor that Perdita had actually been on the stage. The name of Tuck would alert him to danger, however.
“You had best reconsider your answer, Mr. Alton. The wench is mine, bought and paid for. Daugherty told me she is with you. Produce her, before I am forced to resort to physical persuasion."
“There is nobody here but my mother. She’s sick.”
“I did not expect you were harboring a pair of lightskirts under your family roof. Where are you boarding them, the girl and her dragon?”
“I don’t know what you're . . ."
“Yes, you do. You picked them up at Mother Gaines’s place. You drove them away. You have not had time to take them to the country. Logic leads to the conclusion you have got them in a city apartment. You had better give me the address . . ."
“There is some mistake. There is nobody here but my mother and myself. Folker!” he called to the butler, in a quavering voice. My own knees were rattling so hard I feared they would betray my presence.
Folker entered and said in a dignified voice that Mrs. Alton had particularly requested silence, in her condition . . . The ominous words made her condition sound a good deal more serious than it was. “A sick mother does not preclude your having the women under your protection,” Stornaway pointed out.
“I tell you they ain’t. You have got the wrong bird. It is Harry Alton this fellow meant, likely as not,” John told him, with an admirable flare for deceit. I had not looked for such wiliness from him.