by Syrie James
His advice excited me. For the first time, I felt that I had a direction: a path or plan which might lead to me improving my skills as a writer. I determined from that moment forth to follow it.
Chapter the Twenty-seventh
I awoke on the 23rd of June full of hope, excitement, and nervous anticipation. It was Midsummer’s Eve, the day of our performance, and also Charles’s twelfth birthday. At breakfast, we paid tribute to him with his favourite lemon cake. My mother gave Charles a very smart blue coat which she had remade from my brother Frank’s, and Cassandra and I presented him with a set of handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials. To my surprise, Edward Taylor also gave him a gift: his small silver folding knife, which Charles had seen and admired on a previous occasion. Charles was pleased to no end.
Mr. and Mrs. Knight returned to Goodnestone that morning, happy and anxious to see our production. The remainder of the morning was a beehive of activity, as we endeavoured to get everything ready for the start time of two o’clock. The two Edwards oversaw the final placement of the chairs for the audience, which Lady Bridges made them rearrange twice. As it was to be a day-time performance, no candles were needed; the drapes and shutters on the tall windows were left open, flooding the room with summer light. I went over lines with those harried members who felt the need for such attention, and Edward Taylor calmed those who exhibited a sudden case of nerves.
“If you forget a line,” Edward Taylor reassured them, “do not worry: simply take a deep breath and clear your mind. The words will come to you.”
Cassandra and my mother made the final adjustments to everyone’s clothing. The housemaids gathered armfuls of fresh flowers, leaves, and vines from the garden, and with help from the cast, a good three hours were spent dutifully attaching the garden’s bounty to all the fairies’ head-dresses.
I was particularly fond of my own costume, for my mother and sister had fashioned it from Lady Bridges’s emerald-green silk, and covered it over with fabric leaves and real bird feathers in many colours. I braided my long hair and pinned it up around my head, and once adorned by my wreath of fresh leaves, I considered myself to be a very fine Puck indeed. Now, I could only hope that my acting should live up to the weight of the role itself!
At half-past one, the actors, attired in all their finery (and looking truly splendid) gathered in the green-room, most of them chattering excitedly. The child fairies and attendants chased each other around the chamber until my brother Edward gently encouraged them to stop. Not everybody shared the same enthusiasm: Thomas looked as pale as death with anxiety, and Frederic likewise appeared so nervous, I worried that he might be sick at any moment. Four other members of the company—Fanny, Mr. Cage, Mr. Deedes, and Sophia—sat silently apart in the four separate corners of the room, distracted and preoccupied. I took this to be a sound thing, for their roles were substantial; I would also have preferred, before the performance, to remain quietly on my own, to go over my lines in my head.
A few crises were aborted: little Sidney Payler’s wings required reattaching at the shoulder; Elizabeth insisted that several withered flowers in her head-dress be replaced with fresh ones; and most alarming of all, Edward Taylor’s donkey ears had mysteriously gone missing; a frantic search ensued, and the missing article was thankfully discovered intact behind a sofa.
I soon heard the arrival of carriages without, and a few minutes more brought the sound of activity to the theatre beyond. Unable to restrain myself, I slipped into the central hall, partially opened a connecting door, and peeked through, to observe Lady Bridges talking animatedly as she ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Payler, and Admiral and Mrs. Fielding, who took seats alongside Mr. and Mrs. Knight. My mother, finished with her costuming duties, now excused herself to join the spectators. Our cast was so large, I had worried that we should surely outnumber the audience; but moments later all the servants began to arrive, and as all excitedly took their seats, the room began to look quite full.
My brother Edward urged everyone in the green-room to be quiet, and a solemn silence followed, causing the tension in the chamber to rise yet higher. I was wild with excitement. We had all worked very hard to usher this play into being over the past twelve days. The occupation had been one of the greatest and most fulfilling pleasures I had ever known. Now, at last, we were to perform before an audience!
At two o’clock exactly, Sir Brook welcomed everyone; and then the curtain parted.
The play opened inauspiciously. Thomas Payler faltered badly through his first three speeches, and as I overheard this slow and awkward beginning from my position behind the scenes, my cheeks warmed with embarrassment; but Edward Taylor whispered in my ear,
“Do not distress yourself, Miss Jane. It will get better. And it is only family and friends out there—and servants who have probably never seen a play. They will be thrilled with whatever we do.”
I gave him a grateful look and felt more composed. The scene did soon improve, for Hermia, Lysander, and Helena were quite marvellous; and as the performance continued, the key performers were everything I had hoped they would be. The first craftsmen’s scene was amusing, with Edward Taylor squeezing every laugh out of the audience which the playwright had intended. Frederic, true to form, mangled his only line in the scene; what should have been, “Have you the lion’s part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study,” was delivered as follows:
Have you. The—the part. The lion’s part! Written?
I pray! Give it. Me. I am slow. Thank you.
I smiled to myself, realising that this mutilation of the Bard’s words did not matter in the least, for the meaning was clear enough, and the performance was perfectly in character—for Snug was, after all, “slow of study.”
Suddenly, it was Act II—and time for my entrance. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I thought I should not be able to hear my own speech. Cassandra gave my hand a squeeze, and Edward Taylor winked at me encouragingly; then I was striding onto the stage from one side, while Marianne entered at another, and uttering my first line:
How now, spirit! whither wander you?
To my mortification, my voice broke on the third word, and I was obliged to clear my throat to pronounce the remainder. Marianne sweetly made her speech, and I crossed to her as we had rehearsed; but I felt wooden and awkward. In all my previous experience of theatre at Steventon, my parts had been small, the audience even smaller. It had been one thing to rehearse here with no one except the other players watching; I was now very conscious of the presence of the audience—I could not help glancing out at them. Marianne ended her first speech:
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.
I knew I was obliged to respond with my first real speech; but the sea of countenances before me was so disconcerting, that I could not remember my line! I froze, in a panic. A brief and horrible silence succeeded. My gazed landed on my mother, who was staring at me with a worried expression. Her condemnation I could not take; very quickly, I repeated to myself the verbal antidote which Edward Taylor had given the others to calm their nerves: take a deep breath. Clear your mind. The words will come to you.
To my relief, they did:
The King doth keep his revels here to-night;
Take heed the Queen come not within his sight . . .
The rest of my speech flowed forth, perfect and unhurried; I invested my delivery the way I had rehearsed it, with all the verve, animation, and good humour I could muster.
When Oberon and Titania entered with their train of fairy attendants, the audience ooohed and aaahed at the lovely costumes, and appeared thrilled as the action unfolded. I particularly enjoyed my moments acting opposite my brother Edward, for he was the personification of the King of the Fairies, and I had begun to feel truly Puckish.
Although some lines were dropped, some entrances we
re late, and some changes of scenery were executed awkwardly (a chair from the duke’s palace unnecessarily found itself in the forest on one occasion), I do not think the audience noticed. Sir Brook had so little to do, that he sat out in the audience (in full costume) for the bulk of the performance, and would have missed his only other cue, had I not managed to overtly signal his attention.
At one point, Mr. Deedes, generally of such a sunny disposition, left the stage frowning and shaking his head with agitation, which I deduced to be dissatisfaction with his own performance; and during another scene, in which Lysander avows his love for Helena, I heard a gasp of irritation from Fanny, who was watching in the wings, and thought I might have seen a tear in her eye. It proved to me what an accomplished actress Fanny was, for so invested was she in the role of Hermia, that even off the stage, she felt all the emotion of the character she was inhabiting. And with what deep emotion and fierce anger did she invest her challenge to Helena to a fight! Fanny’s fit of anguish and jealousy was so keenly executed, as to be worthy of the London stage.
Everyone rose to the occasion. Cassandra was a fine Hippolyta, Elizabeth was a beautiful and seductive Titania, and the craftsmen were just as bumbling as one would wish. Thomas warmed to his part and got through it with a certain aplomb, and even Frederic eventually managed to do himself credit with a minimum of prompting, his very slowness adding to the humour of the character (his each and every line met with applause from his delighted mother).
Edward Taylor was (as expected) hilarious, and indisputably the star of the show. Charlotte played a truly lovely Thisbe to his Pyramus, investing her death scene with such an element of woe, as to raise it above comedy and bring a tear to many a watching eye. I was rewarded for my own efforts with laughter from the audience at the appropriate, key moments. I had never had such a part, had never been a part of such an exciting performance before!
All too soon, the play ended. The audience rose to its feet and applauded. As we all took our bows, the feeling in the air was electric; I looked out at the delighted expressions of our admirers, and knew I was experiencing something very special, which for the rest of my life I should never forget.
Afterwards, the spectators mingled with the cast, exchanging hugs and kisses and laudatory remarks all around. Mrs. Fielding was beside herself with joy at the accomplishment of her son. Everybody remarked with astonishment on Charlotte’s performance: what a wonder was she! Who could have guessed that Charlotte, normally so quiet and reserved, was such a capable actress! Mrs. Watkinson Payler behaved as proudly as though she were the queen of England, reminding everyone that “the play could not have been done without the Paylers’ involvement; and were not they all fine actors, every last one of them?”
Praise was heaped upon my brother Edward for his directing efforts, which he accepted modestly, quick to point out the many contributions which I and Edward Taylor had made. My mother and Cassandra were pleased to accept acclaim for designing the costumes, but admitted that the entire cast had helped with their construction. Lady Bridges made so many self-congratulatory statements, as to seemingly take credit for the entire production herself.
A half-hour passed in such a manner, before I happened to notice that Fanny and Mr. Cage were not amongst the company. It occurred to me, that in all this happy display of feeling, I did not recall observing them anywhere. When had they left? Where had they gone? Why had they not remained to accept the congratulations that were their due? I made inquiries, but no one seemed to have any idea what had become of them. At last, when I applied to the youngest children, Harriot said:
“Fanny walked out of the room as soon as the play was over. She had a very dark look on her face.”
“Did she?” replied I. “And what of Mr. Cage? Did you see where he went?”
“I saw him,” answered little George Bridges. “He left right after Fanny.”
Nothing more had been seen nor heard of the pair. I thought it strange that they should vanish at the very moment of our triumph, and wondered what it might mean; but I had little time to consider the matter, as I became immediately embroiled in the business which always attends the end of a theatrical production. A hundred details required our immediate attention: there were the costumes and properties to be gathered up, clothing to be changed, and furniture to be cleared away; and all must be accomplished before the Midsummer’s Eve celebratory dinner, after which, all were invited to stay for the bonfire, to be held after dark.
Our company of players were all exhausted when we at last sat down to dine. Fanny and Mr. Cage had still not made an appearance—and now, inexplicably, Sophia was also among the missing. Lady Bridges insisted that there was nothing to worry about; the lovers no doubt desired some private time after all the hubbub of the performance, and Mr. Cage, being a very proper gentleman, must have requisitioned Sophia as their chaperone. This seemed to be a reasonable assessment of the situation; however, I overheard her ladyship quietly ask one of the footmen to see if he could discover what had become of the absent parties. He returned some ten minutes later, and from his apologetic look, and the frown on Lady Bridges’s countenance which met his whispered answer, I deduced that his inquiries had not met with success.
The table cloth had just been removed, and the dessert served, when a hurried footfall was heard in the passage, and Sophia burst into the room, her eyes filled with tears. Mr. Deedes leapt to his feet and pulled out the empty chair beside him, but Sophia moved directly to her father’s side and stopped there distractedly, seemingly too overcome to speak.
“Sophia,” said Sir Brook with deep concern, “what is the matter?”
“Oh, Papa!” responded she softly and brokenly. “It is too horrible for words. I was worried about Fanny and went looking for her. I found her walking in the park, weeping. She—” Leaning down, she whispered something quietly in his ear.
Sir Brook froze in consternation. “Dear God! You cannot mean it!”
“What is it?” cried Lady Bridges.
“It seems that Fanny has just broken off her engagement to Mr. Cage.” Sir Brook’s reply, despite an attempt to be discreet, was heard by all.
An astonished buzz went round the table. My heart leapt with surprise. Lady Bridges gasped in horror and disappointment. Marianne, sincerely affected, cried:
“Oh no! What happened?”
“Fanny would not tell me,” responded Sophia tearfully. “She ran away before I could say a word. As I returned to the house, I ran into Mr. Cage—he appeared very angry and distressed. He sent me back with a message, for you, sir.” Struggling to compose herself, Sophia addressed Mr. Deedes: “He is packing his things, and intends to leave the house this very night for Canterbury. He requests an audience with you, sir, at the earliest possible moment.”
Mr. Deedes went pale, his visage troubled. “Thank you, Miss Sophia.” Rising, he bowed to her and then to our hosts, adding graciously, “Pray forgive me, Sir Brook, Lady Bridges. I must go to my friend; and if he is leaving, I must go with him.” Turning, he quit the room.
Sophia burst into tears.
A tumult erupted at the table, as whispered theories and conflicting observations were passed back and forth, many of which reached my ears: “Such a shame—all for the best—the perfect couple—not suited to each other at all—lovely girl—she is too proud—the best of men—too quiet and stern—deserves better—I like him!—her eye fell upon another gentleman—I think we both know who—a double wedding—so looking forward—timing is very ill—and the play such a triumph!—both were very good—poor Fanny!—to leave on Midsummer’s Eve!—to miss the bonfire!—such a shame!”
I listened to the clamour around me with mixed emotions. As this turn of events was the very outcome which I had, for some time, been wishing for, I presumed I should feel a glimmer of satisfaction; yet inexplicably I did not. That Fanny and Mr. Cage were mismatched, I still ardently believed; that my plan
had apparently worked—that a slight nudge had averted the disaster of an unhappy marriage—was a source of some little satisfaction; but I had imagined it would all come about amicably, through the discovery of the truth of their affections, and a discussion marked by calm understanding and mutual consent. To happen this way! To learn that Fanny and Mr. Cage were both angry and distressed! Worse yet, that both Mr. Cage and Mr. Deedes were to leave Goodnestone that very night—on Midsummer’s Eve itself! With that leaving, no fresh admissions of feeling could be made, no new couples could be formed. It was the ruination of all my plans, the end of everything I had been hoping for. It was too, too terrible!
My brother Edward pushed back his chair, stood, and said:
“I will speak to Mr. Cage. Perhaps I can persuade him not to leave.” Edward Taylor offered to join him; my brother gave Elizabeth’s hand a reassuring squeeze, and the two gentlemen took their leave.
“I do not understand,” wailed Lady Bridges, as Mrs. Fielding attempted to comfort her. “Why has Fanny broken off with Mr. Cage?”
It was an excellent question: why? If Fanny ended her engagement because she preferred Mr. Deedes (which I hoped was the case), then why was she weeping? Why was Mr. Cage angry and distressed, and leaving with such dispatch? If he had feelings for Sophia, would not he stay to court her, in the wake of Fanny’s defection?
It was all a muddle; and I could not avoid one overriding idea: that something was very wrong, and that somehow, it might all be my fault. I put down my fork, my appetite gone.
Standing up, I called out to Sir Brook: “I beg your forgiveness, sir, but I must find Fanny. May I please be excused?” Without waiting for a response, I dashed from the chamber.
Chapter the Twenty-eighth
I crossed the open park at the front of the house, past flocks of grazing sheep and the area where servants were unloading carts laden with tree branches and twigs, and setting up the bonfire to be lit later that evening. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of sun-warmed grass, and the summer sun was still high enough in the sky as to warm my back and shoulders.