Colonel Seton looked grim. He informed them, “You both could be charged for withholding vital information helpful to the enemy.”
“In fairness I do not think you could truly say that,” Barnum protested.
Colonel Seton shrugged and went on coldly, “That depends on my judgment. For the moment, I’m more interested in the other matter we discussed.”
Startled, she asked, “What other matter?”
The secret service man stared at her and then said, “I fear I must charge you with employing Confederate spies in your company and helping them in their underground activities!”
She sat forward in her chair not certain that she had heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
Barnum came to her rescue, telling her, “He claims you have spies in your company and that you knowingly are protecting them.”
“That is not true!” she said sharply. “As I have told you, I try hard to avoid any political associations.”
“Really?” The secret service man sounded smug. “You have a Charles and Marie Dale in your company?”
She said, “Yes, of course. Mr. Dale is a fine old character actor much devoted to his daughter, who plays bit roles.”
“His wife, Mrs. Cornish,” Colonel Seton snapped.
“His wife?” she gasped.
“Yes,” the secret service man continued. “His wife and formerly his mistress. They are two of the most active spies in this part of the country.”
“I can’t believe it!” she said with utter amazement.
Barnum leaned forward. “How did you come to hire these two, Fanny?”
She stared at him and then the secret service man, knowing that she had fallen into a trap. She took a deep breath and said, “John Wilkes Booth begged me to give them work before he left the company. He made no mention of their political affiliation.”
“He did not tell you they were spies, just as he had been for most of the war?” Colonel Seton demanded.
“No. He said they had fallen on hard times and needed work.”
“And that was all you know about them?” Barnum asked.
“Yes,” she said unhappily. “I had no idea they were man and wife or spies.”
“Well that is what they are,” the Colonel said.
Barnum turned to him, “You can see that Mrs. Cornish is innocent of any wrong-doing in this.”
“So she claims,” the secret service man said.
“It is true,” she insisted. “What are you going to do about them?”
“They will be arrested,” Colonel Seton said. “I propose to have my men at the theatre tonight waiting for them.”
“Charles Dale is playing important parts, he will not be easy to replace,” she protested.
“That is no interest to me,” Colonel Seton said. “You have until tonight to prepare someone to take his place. And I warn you, if word of this gets to those two, I will arrest you along with them. You will be held responsible.”
“I think I can arrange a replacement without his knowing,” she said quietly.
“There had better be no errors, Mrs. Cornish,” the grim Union man warned her. “If they escape you will be held in their confederate. And charged thus!”
Barnum protested, “That is hardly fair, Colonel. Those two who might hear they were suspect from someone else. You cannot hold Mrs. Cornish fully responsible for them.”
“I fear, I must,” the thin man replied coldly. He stood up and bowed to them both and then left the room.
Still seated, she glanced at the big P.T. Barnum saying, “I can’t believe it!”
“I’m afraid it’s all true.”
“I might have suspected,” she said ruefully. “John came to me to hire them just before he vanished.”
“Bad business!”
“I agree,” she said, rising. “Will our troubles never end!”
It almost seemed that they never would. She secretly arranged with the stage manager, Leroy Barnes, to have two other actors engaged and rehearsed. And she arrived at the theatre feeling tense.
They were playing Merchant of Venice and she
had arranged for the other actor to dress in a small cubicle away from the rest of the company. The understudy would be ready to quickly take on Marie’s role. As curtain time drew near Leroy Barnes came to her dressing room and informed her that Colonel Seton and three secret service associates had come backstage.
She went down for her first entrance, her temples throbbing and her eyes taking in all that was going on in the murky area backstage. Deep in the shadows Colonel Seton and his men waited, standing against the rear wall. She had barely reached the stage when the stout Charles Dale came down in his velvet jacket and breeches in the role of “Bassanio.” He stood for a moment speaking in pleasant fashion with one of the other male actors.
Then Colonel Seton and his men advanced on him. The old actor saw them approaching and at once gave away his guilt by turning and attempting to escape. The Colonel and his men were on him and holding him struggling with a moment.
Wild-eyed, he angrily demanded, “What is the meaning of this nonsense?” And seeing her, he called to her, “Are you going to allow this, Mrs. Cornish?”
She went up to stand before him and said soberly,
“I’m sorry Charles. It is the fortunes of war, I fear!”
He frowned indignantly. “What are you talking about?”
Colonel Seton faced him and in his cold voice said, “We have all the proof a court will need. We’re arresting both you and your wife for spying!”
Word must have been sent to Maria for she now came racing down the iron stairway from the dressing room wailing. She ran to her husband only to be seized by Colonel Seton and likewise charged. The secret service men took both of the actors out of the theatre before the curtain rose.
Colonel Seton remained a moment to inform her in his arrogant fashion, “At the moment we shall proceed no further against you. But should you be involved in any other matter of question I make no promises.”
She said, “I do not think you need worry, Colonel.”
“It is you who must do the worrying,” he said in his sarcastic fashion. “At least as long as John Wilkes Booth remains alive and continuing his black career!”
She was happy to have Leroy Barnes come and whisper it was time for her entrance on the stage. She was able to move away from the hateful Union Secret Service man without making any further conversation.
That night she owed a great deal to Eric Mason for keeping the performance up to standard. Knowing she was unsteady as “Portia” he played his “Shylock” to the hilt. He never had given a better performance.
Afterwards he came to her dressing room and in a mood much more friendly than usual, he told her, “I know you are upset. May I escort you to your hotel and perhaps we might enjoy a midnight supper there?”
She turned from her mirror and said, “Thank you. The idea is appealing, Eric. I shall not refuse your offer.”
So it was that an hour later she found herself sharing wine and a light supper with Eric in the same quarters which she had so happily shared with John Wilkes Booth. Eric moved about the living room of the suite restlessly, his wine glass in hand.
“This is where we first met,” he reminded her turning to her as he stood by the window.
Seated by the table, she said, “Yes. And I did not guess then how fortunate the meeting would be.”
He smiled wryly. “Your company is constantly being faced with replacements.”
“So it would seem.”
“I would not worry too much about Charles and Maria,” the British actor said. “I have been talking with some of the others and they feel with the war so nearly ended, it cannot go too hard with spies.”
She sighed. “I hope not. I had come to like the two.”
He arched an eyebrow. “In spite of the fact they deceived you?”
“Yes. I can even forgive them that. This war has been a sad business which has
divided brother from brother in a mad fashion.”
“You are thinking of John Wilkes Booth and his brothers?”
“I suppose so.”
“Were you truly in love with him?” the lean Britisher asked. Then he immediately blushed and apologized, “You must forgive my asking.”
She smiled at him in mild surprise. “The question is not at all like you.”
“I know,” he said, blushing and looking down. “I have tried to keep a respectful distance from you, Fanny. “
“Until tonight,” she said, with a tone of curiosity.
“Yes,” he said. “Until tonight. I put it down to the unhappy sequence of events. I felt sorry for you and wanted to be of some comfort.”
“You have been,” she said quietly.
“And you have not answered my question. Were you in love with John Wilkes Booth?”
She looked away, staring off to the other side of the room. “An interesting question. You make me wonder about the true nature of love. It seems to me I’ve known love more than once.”
“Most of us do,” the British actor said. “At least loves of various sorts.”
“Early in my life I lost the man I loved first of all,” she said. “Then David came along. I do not think I loved him in the same fashion but I grew to honor and cherish him as our marriage progressed. Where I had first respected him only as an actor I came to believe in him as a man.”
“I cannot argue about David,” Eric Mason said. “He was my own good friend.”
She sighed. “Then America. And a young actor with more romantic illusions than good sense. I made the mistake of thinking we might become lovers and share our loneliness. As a result I lost him as a co-worker and a friend. He enlisted in the army and may be dead by now. He became angered when he saw how much John and I meant to each other!”
Eric Mason said, “So John is the big love of your life at this moment?”
“Yes. I can honestly say that.”
“I felt so,” he said. “You know he is in great trouble?”
“I only fear for him,” she said. “I cannot condemn him.”
“You believe in his genius?”
She nodded. “He is likely the finest actor I have ever worked with.”
Eric Mason came and sat by her. “You wonder why I have asked you these questions?”
“Yes.”
“In all the time we’ve been together I’ve told you little about myself.”
“Little, beyond the fact you were a good friend of David’s.”
“That is all true,” he said. His eyes met hers soberly, “I have begun to hope that maybe you could come to care for me.”
“I do like you very much, Eric.” she exclaimed in surprise. “What would make you think otherwise?”
“I know you are my friend. I owe everything to you,” he said. “But I have wondered if we could be more.”
There was a moment of poignant silence between them. Then she reached out and touched his arm gently and with a small, sad smile said, “No. I fear my liking for you is of a different sort.”
“I see,” he said quietly.
“I hope I have not hurt you,” she was quick to say. “I need you as a friend and as an actor.”
He spread his hands in a resigned gesture. “Have no fear, I will not desert you.”
“You must make no false moves,” she told him urgently. “You have a brilliant future ahead of you. Mr. Barnum agrees with me in this.”
A strange look had come over the ascetic face of the British actor. He said, quietly, “There can be no doubt. It is for the best.”
“Thank you, Eric, for being a friend,” she said, touched by his acceptance of her refusal of his love.
His eyes met hers gravely and he said, “You do not quite understand.”
“No?”
“You see,” he said, slowly, “I have not been completely honest with you.”
“In what way?”
“I have a wife back in England.”
She gave a tiny gasp. “But you have never spoken of her. Never mentioned her existence. Why?”
His expression was cynical. “I wanted to get ahead. I felt it might be easier if my marriage were not known. I might have even made an offer of marriage to you.”
“Surely not,” she said, saddened by this revelation of such a flaw in his character. “You could not have two wives.”
“Many men do, especially when one is on the other side of the ocean with no knowledge of there whereabouts.”
“Have you deserted your wife?”
His smile was bitter. “Now it is you asking the difficult questions.”
Fanny said, “I think, all things considered, I have a right to know the truth.”
“Very well,” the actor said. “I did desert her. Times were bad. I felt she was better off without me.”
“And children?”
“One,” he said. “A little girl of two when I last saw her five years ago.”
Fanny stared at him. “Don’t you feel anything for your wife and child? Don’t you want to see them?”
“Yes,” he said. “1 realize that now. I don’t think I really wanted to become your lover because of it. I shall send back to friends in London and find them.”
“Heaven pray they are still alive.”
“Amen to that,” he said soberly. “Then life would be difficult for me.”
“You must do this at once,” she urged him. “In a case like this even a small amount of time could be precious. Is your wife an actress?”
“Yes, Myra was on the stage,” he said. “Not very good. But pretty. Maybe she’s married again by now.”
“Do you think she really valued her marriage to you?” Fanny asked.
“I think so,” he said.
“Then I don’t believe she’d marry again. She would be afraid to, not knowing whether you are alive or dead.”
He put his empty wine glass down and said, “I will go now.”
She rose to see him to the door. “You will write London tomorrow?”
“I will,” he said. He hesitated at the door, staring at her again. “You think I’m a cold fish, don’t you?”
She gave a sorry smile. “I think I understand you.”
Without warning he took her in his arms and kissed her fervently on the lips and held her to him. Then he almost abruptly released her and turned and hurried out.
Fanny closed the door after him with a bemused expression on her lovely face. She had long ago learned that to be as attractive as she was, could be a mixed blessing. Was it to be her fate that every leading man she had would fall in love with her? What was this strange trick of chemicals which made the allure between the sexes so overwhelming and often so pointless?
Eric Mason had called himself a cold fish. And he was in many ways. It showed in his acting, he could never quite cover that aloof, calculating side of his nature. But in her own way she wasn’t at all sure but that she shared something of the same quality. Those who did not know her might protest and say she was all warmth and romance! Had she not had many lovers? But, in truth, as she alone knew, only one true love in Sir George Palmer.
Her love for David Cornish had been a strange mixture of affection for him and for the theatre which he represented to her. And when he had died in that fearful accident she had turned to Peter Cortez for only as long as she took to learn that he had no real respect for the profession he’d chosen. Again she had turned to the unhappy, near-mad John Wilkes Booth with his genius for the theatre! She knew she would marry John if the opportunity presented itself.
So it could be that she was as cold towards love alone as Eric Mason had accused himself of being. Deep down there was that everlasting love for her actor father and the love for the theatre which he had imbued in her! A loyalty to something above any human relationship, and without which she seemed not able to have any perfect closeness. Her passion could truly be declared the theatre!
There was the one exception. T
he first love she had known before she became dedicated to her acting. There was no sacrifice she could not make for Sir George Palmer. She had made the supreme sacrifice of turning away from him and allowing him to marry another. She had put him out of her life. But he would not remain a stranger to her thoughts!
The next morning she and Eric met on the stage of the Lyceum with the other members of the company and began the final rehearsals of The Maid and the Miser. No one would have guessed by their easy way of working together, especially in the love scene, that on the previous night they had taken part in such a frank revelation of themselves. At the conclusion of the rehearsal Eric told her, “This is going to be our most successful play.”
Beloved Scoundrel Page 19