by Julia Tagan
And nothing. She was still under the thumb of the duchess, destined for Mr. Hopplehill.
Harriet had been surprised, at the park earlier, to learn William discussed her with his sister. She’d also sensed Lady Claire wasn’t pleased with her brother’s choice of Marianne as a wife. But none of that mattered. No doubt Marianne would insist the marriage be carried out quickly, to prevent any further delays.
She looked around her room. For six years, it had been a refuge for her, a safe place to retreat when she missed her brother or her father or Adam too much. Now it was a prison.
The duchess would more than likely put her to work assembling Marianne’s wedding gown and trousseau, gathering petticoats and chemises William would touch, and remove, on their wedding night. The idea was unbearable.
She had returned to London because she’d felt guilty for dragging William into a terrible mess. Of course, she didn’t expect him to thank her or even appreciate her decision. Yet everyone else around her—her father, her brother, even William—were doing exactly as they wished to.
Why shouldn’t she do the same?
The past several weeks her goal had been single-minded: to rescue her father, and her own will and determination surprised her.
Perhaps it was time she rescue herself.
Harriet yanked the portmanteau out from under the bed and placed her few belongings inside, including the book of sonnets. Marianne was still burbling away in the drawing room, and Harriet quietly made her way down the stairs and out the back door. She’d almost closed it behind her when a gruff voice called out her name.
With a sweeping movement, she tossed her portmanteau into the boxwoods beside the steps. The cook emerged in the doorway and glared at her.
“Where are you going? We’ve got work to do.”
“Her Grace has sent me on an errand. I won’t be long.”
The cook eyed her suspiciously. “Did you fix that apron yet?”
“I have. I’ll bring it down this evening.”
“Good. Otherwise you’ll ruin your pretty dresses. And we wouldn’t want that.”
She huffed away. Harriet closed the door, freed her portmanteau from the shrubbery, and ran.
During her furious escape, she kept her eyes trained forward, like a carriage horse wearing blinkers. She entered the Covent Garden Theatre through the stage door, where a grizzled stagehand directed her up two flights of stairs to an office door painted with the words “Mr. Harris, Producer.”
She knocked and stepped inside. Random props from previous shows, including several swords balanced precariously on a narrow cabinet, covered every surface of the room, and a large cutout of a palm tree lurked in one corner. Framed playbills from previous shows, including John Philip Kemble’s Othello and Sarah Siddon’s Measure for Measure, adorned the walls.
Mr. Harris sat behind a giant wooden desk that was out of proportion with the rest of the room. Her father sat opposite him, and both men looked up in surprise when she entered.
“Harry!”
Her first instinct was to run into her father’s arms and bury her head in his lap like a young girl. Instead, she stood firm and launched into the speech she’d formulated on the way over. “Father. Mr. Harris. I’m here to offer my services.”
Her father’s face lit up before she could say anything further. He took her in his arms. “My girl, I knew you’d come to your senses.”
“I needed time to think about my future, and I was rash to not consider your offer of employment.”
“The role of Rosalind is already cast.” Mr. Harris’s voice was cold.
She was prepared for that. “I’m not interested in acting. I’d prefer to support the production behind the scenes.”
“From behind the scenes, you say? Why not on stage?”
“I enjoy acting, but I can do more.”
“What more?”
Her father laughed. “Harriet’s awfully good at telling other people what to do.”
She nodded without smiling. “Yes, that’s true. But I don’t want to be presumptuous. I simply want a job.”
Mr. Harris leaned forward. His eyes were widely spaced apart and he blinked several times in a row. “You’re a woman.”
“I can be an assistant, or help with costumes. Whatever you need. I must support myself now.”
“The duchess tossed you out?” her father asked.
“Not exactly.”
Mr. Harris rubbed his chin. “I’d have to speak with our general manager. He’s out of town at the moment.”
“Of course. In the meantime, I can help out backstage during the run of As You Like It.” She hated putting herself at their mercy, but she’d learned there was no turning back. This was the life she was meant for.
“Why don’t you step out of the room for a moment, Miss Farley, so your father and I can discuss this matter privately?”
A few minutes after she’d obeyed, the door opened. Her father took her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks. “Welcome back to the theater.”
A lump formed in Harriet’s throat and she swallowed hard.
“Come with us, we’d like to show you around,” said Mr. Harris. “Leave your valise here for now.”
“Have you heard from Freddie?” she whispered to her father as they followed Mr. Harris down the labyrinthine hallways.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I doubt we’ll hear from that boy again.”
“Why did you tell the papers about the poisoning?” She was in no position to argue with him now, but she didn’t want him to think by joining him she approved of his actions.
“No one believes it. It’s all for show, you know that. Rumors sell tickets.” He pulled her closer, not taking his eyes off the back of Mr. Harris’s dark head. “Without you, ticket sales haven’t been what we’d hoped. By London’s standards, the Farley Players don’t deserve to be here, in the finest theater in England. If the crowd turns up their noses, we don’t make any money and it’s back to the circuit. I had to pique their interest.”
The narrow hallway opened up into a balcony overlooking the lobby. Mr. Harris waited for them to catch up, then opened a door and led them into a private box. Harriet put one hand on the wall to steady herself as she gazed into the cavernous space before her. The actors were in the middle of act one, arranged onstage before an exquisitely painted backdrop of a sinister-looking castle edged with willow trees. Their voices carried effortlessly to the back of the house.
“It’s beautiful,” Harriet whispered.
The actress playing Rosalind was on her knees, pleading with the duke not to banish her, and even from this distance Harriet could see the woman was too old and stout for the part of an innocent young girl.
“Mrs. Rebecca Mudie,” said Mr. Harris. “She has a loyal following.”
Harriet nodded. To her astonishment, when it came time for the actress to rise, she was unable. The boy Martin ran forward and helped her to her feet. She waved him off once she was upright and coughed a couple of times before continuing her speech.
Harriet gave her father an inquisitive look.
“We had to take what we could get.”
More likely, her father wanted to keep a greater share for himself at the expense of the production. Hiring a more expensive actress would have dipped into his profits. He preferred spreading rumors to paying for talent.
“Stop, stop.” Mrs. Mudie brought the scene to a halt and waved her hands in front of her. “I need something to coat my throat. We must break.”
“Very well,” called out one of the stagehands. “Take ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Ten minutes only.”
“Mrs. Mudie has been complaining about her assistant. I’ll introduce you,” said Mr. Harris. “Perhaps you can take over.”
Backstage, Mr. Harris knocked on Mrs. Mudie’s dressing room door and ent
ered without waiting for an answer. The actress was adjusting her wig and didn’t look up. “I said I’m not going onstage until I’ve had a cup of tea.”
“Mrs. Mudie.”
“Mr. Harris.” She rolled her eyes and tossed the wig onto the dressing table. “Your wigs don’t fit properly, and I assure you, you won’t be happy with the howls of laughter when it falls off during the show.”
“I’m sorry you’re not pleased. Mrs. Mudie, may I introduce Miss Farley?”
Mrs. Mudie gave Harriet an appraising glance. “Right. The one from Birmingham.”
A young girl hurried in with a tea tray and placed it near Mrs. Mudie’s elbow. She lifted the cup to her lips and sneered. “It’s cold. Get your head together, Emmaline, you’ve been acting like a simpleton all day.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” She moved to take the tray away.
“Leave it. It’ll have to do.”
“You seem displeased,” said Mr. Harris once the girl had left.
“I’m working with amateurs. I expected more from you, Mr. Harris.”
“Then why don’t you leave?”
The room fell silent and Harriet’s father shifted uneasily.
“You wouldn’t dare. We have a contract.” Mrs. Mudie raised her upper lip, as if she were about to bite.
“We’re worried about your health. Perhaps you should take some time to rest your voice.”
“Who’s going on instead? Her?” she nodded toward Harriet.
“Your services are no longer required.”
They’d set her up.
“Wait,” interjected Harriet. Her father was still up to his old tricks. While she’d waited outside of the office, they’d agreed to fire the lead and use her instead. “I said I’d help in other ways, not onstage. I don’t want to play Rosalind.”
Her father nodded his head slowly up and down. “Of course you do. Don’t be ridiculous. Play the part. Once the run is over, you can sew costumes or sweep or whatever else you fancy. Tonight you’ll go on stage.”
“You’re talking as if I’m not in the room,” thundered Mrs. Mudie. “I’m still here, you know. It’s my part to play.”
“Not anymore,” said Mr. Harris. “This was to be your swan song, and I’m afraid the swan has drowned prematurely. Per your contract, I have the ability to let you go at a moment’s notice. Thank you, Mrs. Mudie.”
“You can’t treat me this way. I’ll spread word of what you’ve done and no one will work for you anymore. I promise you that.”
She stood and called for her lady’s maid, then clomped out of the room.
Harriet’s fury matched Mrs. Mudie’s. Once again, her father was using her for his own purposes. And she’d walked right into his trap.
“I’m leaving.” She turned but her father grabbed her arm.
“I know you’re angry. Think of the cast. The production will be so much better with you as Rosalind. If you don’t go on, they don’t go on.”
“That’s your own fault for firing your leading lady at the eleventh hour.”
Mr. Harris leaned back on the dressing table and crossed his arms in front of him. He looked like a man who had all the time in the world. He knew, as Harriet and her father knew, she didn’t have a choice. She could never return to the duchess and Marianne, and the minute she left Covent Garden she’d be destitute and on the streets. Like it or not, this world was her home now. And this was her family, no matter how self-serving or deceitful they might be.
And she couldn’t deny a small part of her wanted to perform at Covent Garden. Her father knew the urge was in her blood, because he’d experienced the same proclivities. It no longer mattered what William thought, or what the duchess would say. The decision was hers. By stepping onto the stage tonight, she’d bring scandal upon both their houses.
“Please, Harry. We need you.”
She took a deep breath.
“I’ll do it.”
Her father grabbed her and spun her around.
“As long as I get a tenth of a share,” she said.
Mr. Harris nodded, all business. “I’ll send someone from wardrobe to find you costumes that fit. We open the doors in an hour or so. The prologue begins an hour after that, followed by As You Like It. That give you enough time to prepare?”
Her father answered for her. “Of course. She’s a Farley. This is what we do.”
Once they’d left, Harriet took stock of the makeup and wigs and sat where Mrs. Mudie had just been. Her heart was heavy, having pushed the woman out of a job. One small consolation was the fact that, at least artistically, it was for the best. From the little she’d watched from the box, Mrs. Mudie would have made a farce of the part and ruined the Farley Players’ debut.
Harriet stared at herself in the mirror. Her face had changed from the girl she’d been a few weeks ago. Her mouth was more firmly set and her eyes looked tired. Before she went out and reunited with the rest of the cast, she needed a minute to herself. The lines of the play were etched in her memory, she wasn’t worried about that. But everything was happening so quickly.
Her throat was dry and although Mrs. Mudie’s tea was cold, it would have to do. She took a few sips and began pinning back her hair. A slight rumble in her stomach made her wonder if a lack of stage fright had finally caught up with her. In two hours, she’d be performing in front of over a thousand people with no rehearsal, so the reaction didn’t surprise her. She ran through her lines in a soft voice, playing out the scenes in her mind, and imagining the thunderous applause.
* * * *
“This turbot is extraordinary,” said Marianne loudly. “Don’t you agree, my lord?”
William looked up from his plate. All eyes were upon him, as if his opinion of the fish were the most urgent of matters. The evening at Lady Bancroft’s dinner party had started out well enough, as one of the other guests expressed an interest in science and they’d discussed the latest innovations in the drawing room while waiting for the other guests to arrive. But once they were seated at dinner, William lost interest in following the conversation, which touched mostly on affairs and gossip. Marianne, however, listened with a great degree of effort. As a wife, she’d be a valuable asset in that regard. Her sociability would offset his irritability.
“The fish is delicious, yes,” he said finally, and the conversation resumed. Lady Bancroft, seated to his left, nodded at him.
“You remind me of my late husband.”
“I hope in an agreeable way, my lady.”
“Very much so.” She lowered her voice. “But he never liked dinner parties. Much preferred to be in the country, hunting, riding, that sort of thing.”
“I have no doubt he made an effort for you, I’m sure. This evening is a delight.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Thank you.”
“We missed you at White’s, Abingdon.” The man seated beside Marianne was an insufferable bore with whom William had attended school. They’d played rugby together and the brute enjoyed charging the smaller boys and scaring them. “I hear you’ve been up north?”
“Yes, Birmingham,” answered William.
“Birmingham?” The hostess put down her wine glass and placed both hands on the table. “That’s where Mrs. Ivey passed away. Such a terrible loss.”
William swallowed with difficulty and kept his eyes on his plate.
“A real loss. The production’s in London now,” answered another guest.
The rest of the table seized upon the topic. William, the duchess, and Marianne stayed quiet as the conversation churned around them. So far no one suspected the duchess’s ward had been briefly associated with the theater company. Most probably didn’t even remember Harriet’s name, and if they did, wouldn’t imagine the shy young ward was the same Harriet Farley.
“They open tonight. With that awful Mrs. Mudie.”
“She’s not so bad. Loved her Volumnia a few seasons ago.”
“Not sure I want to see her tripping around the forest of Arden, though.”
“It’s not Mrs. Mudie that’s going on tonight,” William’s school acquaintance announced. “I passed by the theater on my way here and the placards say Miss Farley’s taken over the role. There were boys on the street, handing out flyers as well. The lines to get inside were already rather long.”
William froze.
“She’s the one who played in Birmingham,” said Lady Bancroft. “I’d like to see her. They say she’s a pleasure to watch.”
The duchess, who was seated to William’s right, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
“Miss Farley. Isn’t that the same name as the girl you took in?” asked Lady Bancroft, turning to her.
“Must be a different girl.” Marianne broke in quickly. “The name’s quite common.”
The servants cleared the course. Amid the clatter, the duchess placed a hand on William’s arm. “You can’t allow this to happen, William,” she whispered. “I had no idea she’d run off again.”
Lady Bancroft observed them closely. William affected a grin, as if he and the duchess were bantering in fun.
“Why would she do such a thing?” the duchess continued. “Right as we’re announcing the engagement.”
His heart raced. Harriet would betray them all with this act. Marianne and he would be tainted by association. And the duchess would be mocked for having raised a common actress in her household.
William leaned in and spoke quietly. “Don’t worry. She won’t go on. Not if I can help it.”
Chapter 16
With help from the wardrobe assistants, Harriet was ready a good half-hour before the curtain was set to rise. She had been costumed in a celestial blue satin slip, trimmed around the bottom with beading, which shimmered underneath a long polonaise robe of white gossamer net. Her feet nestled in blue satin slippers, trimmed with silver, and on her head she wore a luxurious wig secured with dozens of pins. The backstage crew at Covent Garden was helpful in every way, and it was a relief to have someone to turn to when a hem came undone or a shoe was too large. The pleasures of the London stage.