“Harriet Smithson,” Madame Tournier said after my many years of near silence in her presence, “is to play Mother Superior. I presume she has inherited a great acting talent from her parents.”
My body grew hot as coals and I quivered. The girls gasped and stared at me. Then they turned around one by one, seeing by my reaction that what she had said was true.
At supper the other girls turned away from me, and I was left to learn my lines alone and tearful. I played Mother Superior to the best of my ability, and the parents who came to see the play applauded in their ignorance. But from the day the roles had been cast, even my closest friends turned away.
THAT SUMMER, Charles and I spent much time together. We would sit in the orchard, peach juice dripping down our chins, and speak of a shared future in which we toured the world, visiting the great castles and gardens, riding horses through valleys, bathing in the sea.
At breakfast one morning during my fourteenth summer a maid brought me a letter from my mother. Correspondence from my parents was more unusual than their surprise visits, and a shadow hovered over me that morning. Charles had gone to town with his father; I went to sit in the orchard under an apple tree. It was there that I read of the difficulties that had befallen my family. My father was ill with a weakened heart; the doctor thought he had not long to live. He had retired from the stage immediately, and my mother had returned to acting. But her income was too little for a family of four. I was ripe for a career on the stage, she wrote. She and my father had been discussing this prospect and decided that I stood every chance of success.
The time had come for me to begin to repay the gifts I had been given. I felt ill prepared for such a profession.
“Do not be too hasty, Harriet,” Lady Castle Coote said. “Give my husband some time to enquire after a post of governess among our friends. Otherwise, we shall speak with Mr. Jones from the Theatre Royal and see what can be done for you.”
Desdemona
IT WAS MY FATHER WHO tuned my ears to the sounds of stories. Oh, I had nurses and maids to sing me to sleep, but none had the power of Father, whose soft words would send me to dreams of other worlds. And though I grew and learned to read, though my head was filled with books, I never lost my need for the purity of fresh-told stories. It is true I had a happy childhood and wanted for nothing, but I did grow tired of my own company. My nursery never held for me the excitement of battles through desert storms and valleys.
My father had many friends visit the palace. And he chose his friends for nobility and intelligence, not for color, breed, or education. For this I admired him. In the evenings it seemed my presence was not enough and he would desire the company of men. At these times I was not permitted to be fully present but instead would flit about like a moth, relieving the maid of the tea tray and whisky bottle until the men had had their fill and I could listen to their speech. My father would grow merry as the evening darkened, and sometimes I would be called on to tend his headache the following morning. On such mornings he often asked how I liked Organo, Felano, or Felicio, for each of them desired my hand. I begged my father not to give me to them, for I was happy in the palace and did not wish to leave. I could not tell him I did not feel these men were of superior mind. My father patted my head and nodded. He told me I did not have to go.
And for some months after, I remained mainly within the palace walls, my books for company. Oh, how I loved tales of adventure! And then it happened that my father began to invite Othello to talk with him in the evenings. Father admired this Moor and was intrigued by his life. Othello was polite and attentive toward me when I poured his drink, although my father would press him impatiently for more of his story, not looking away from that man’s face even as I took away his teacup and handed him his whiskey glass. And I became glad that I had relieved the maid of these evening duties, for Othello’s story was the most pitiful I had ever heard.
He began with tales of a boyhood wandering the countryside, hunting with the men and returning in the evenings with his catch for the women to cook over the fire. Such boys are already made men, he said, and his work made him strong. And so he caught the attention of those with shackles and chains, those evil men who captured him and sold him into slavery for a good sum. As a slave he met men whipped to shreds, with blankness in their eyes. But Othello was young and strong, and he tended the fields well. In time he received the admiration of those he worked for, and they freed him to become a soldier. As such he has fought many battles for us without a white man’s fear of death. He has traversed deserts and quarries, he has seen heaven from a hilltop.
I spent time alone with Othello. Sometimes my father was occupied with business matters and I kept Othello company while he waited. Other times my father was unwell and Othello remained talking with me until well into the night, long after Father slept. How could I choose but love such a man? He carried me to other worlds with his stories and then brought me back to the kindness and the best of this world. And so I told him that had he a friend who loved me, he could woo me thus. Othello asked if I would be his wife.
It must be said that he wished immediately to go to my father. It was I who stopped him, for fear my father would rip the joy from my breast. For although he loved Othello, I do not believe he had ever considered a black for a son, let alone one with little fortune or education. It was my plan that we would be wed in secret and then would go to my father and tell him. I was sure he would come to seeing my view. He knew the goodness of the man who had won my heart. But I betrayed my father, and I fear the heavens will not forgive me.
I had never imagined it would be so easy to be wed in secret. I was in my marriage bed before my father knew I had gone. But I was awoken from my slumber by hammering and shouting at the door.
Those who captured him could not see the beauty of his form, his strength, the smoothness of his skin. I would that my father had believed the truth of my love for Othello. My husband told me afterward that they accused him of wooing me with witchcraft, and I laughed at the thought. What spells, what herbs, what magic could he have given me? It was nothing other than the stories that drew me to him. I testified thus before my father, and after some time he did believe me. His voice cracked and he furrowed his brow. I saw the lines of years across his cheek when he told of the pain of losing his daughter. At that moment I loved him, for it was losing me that pained him, and not losing me to a Moor. This sadness is a shadow over me like an ill omen.
The moment was soon over, for suddenly people were shouting that we were at war with the Ottomans over Cyprus and my father was collecting himself and calling to Othello that he must go. There was some talk of my staying, but I would rather have died than lose the chance of my first adventure and of accompanying my husband, and finally they all agreed.
I was quite ill during the voyage and pleased to have Emilia, Iago’s wife, to care for me. My husband traveled behind with soldiers. On the island we were housed immediately in comfortable lodgings, and as I lay upon my bed a fierce storm came over. Emilia whimpered and I bade her under the covers with me. The walls shook with thunder, and lightning blazed like fire. It was as though the heavens wished to punish me. I prayed that if Othello were drowned I would be struck by lightning in my sleep.
This morning there is pale sunlight and a playful sea breeze. I sit in the sunshine, waiting for some news. Boat timber has been washed up on the shores, and I fear this gentle weather has something to hide.
Dublin: 1814
I COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE my good fortune in being invited to perform at the Theatre Royal. If I had to enter the acting profession, this was an auspicious beginning. Lady Castle Coote held one last dinner in my honor; all her sons attended. Present, too, was Mr. Jones, who had offered me my new position of employment. He seemed particularly friendly with the Castle Cootes after a few glasses of wine. There were speeches and toasts. Lord Castle Coote wished me well as “a member of our warm family circle,” and I fancied Charles looked a little wist
ful.
After Mr. Jones had left in the wee hours of the morning, all other members of the family retired until I was left alone with Charles. He stared at the thick carpets and then at my boots, until finally his eyes met mine. And then he said, “Miss Smithson, I will think of you often,” before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a box which he placed in my open palm. The gift was a small silver thimble, bordered by curled engraving. It had been his great-grandmother’s, he said, and would protect my lady’s hands. He hoped that whenever I looked at it I would remember him.
I WAS PLEASED to be spared returning to Madame Tournier’s school for young ladies. Lady Castle Coote helped me pack a trunk that had once been hers. When she thought I wasn’t looking, I noticed her slipping small muslin parcels of dried lavender and rose petals between my underclothes, a surprise sweetness that would mean so much to me once I had left the pastures of Waterford for the cobbled streets of Dublin.
“There is much to see in Dublin. You must visit Christ Church Cathedral,” Lady Castle Coote told me. “And you will enjoy being with your family again.” I will never forget her standing in my bedchamber with an armful of gowns, her cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion.
“Harriet, won’t you take some of these?” she asked.
“Perhaps one or two. I think I have outgrown many of them. I expect I will spend most of my time working in Dublin. I shan’t have many opportunities to wear such fine clothes.”
I stood before her in my day dress, and one by one she held the shimmering fabrics against my body, leaning back and squinting. Several of them were now too short, and it was clear they would not fit over my shoulders and hips.
“They are yours, Harriet. Perhaps your sister would wear them?”
And when my bedchamber was bare of trinkets, most of my books boxed ready for a charity school, and the wardrobe empty, I stood alone before the full-length glass staring at my bony figure in its new curves and the silk underclothes Lady Castle Coote had bought me. I stepped into a pink satin gown I had worn to a recent dinner and pulled it up around myself. I could still move inside this one. I folded it into the trunk and lifted a pale blue cotton day dress from the previous summer, holding it against myself. It still held the shape of my thirteen-year-old figure, but I would not be able to wear this one again. And as I stared into the glass, I noticed tears trickling down my cheeks and I held that dress as though it were my life.
Lady Castle Coote accompanied me to town in one of her carriages. Her driver lifted my trunk into the mail coach, and Lady Castle Coote peered anxiously at the driver of the mail coach, in his torn coat, who was chewing some foul-smelling plant.
“Harriet—are you sure we cannot send you with our own driver? I am worried to allow you on your own—”
“It is all arranged. And there will be other passengers. I’m sure I will be safe.” And as I spoke these words, I wondered if it was too late to change my mind, to travel back home with her and live out the rest of my days as a lady in Waterford. She turned back to me and sniffed.
“I must let you go then. Good-bye, sweet child. A safe journey and love to your family.” Briefly, she enveloped me in her soft cloak and the scent of white roses.
The journey took many hours, and we stopped overnight in Wicklow. I was grateful for the presence of an older lady on her way to visit her grandchildren in Dublin, though at times her chatter became too much and I feigned sleep to encourage her silence. We shared a room at the inn, and if it was not for old Mrs. Kennedy, it is possible I would have slipped away in the night, away from the carriage that would take me to my family, or instead I might have cried myself to sleep. But Mrs. Kennedy told stories of all her children and grandchildren, and this passed the time and distracted me from my worries. As the carriage jolted up and down, I imagined a vibrant city with many cobbled streets to explore, beautiful shops, and churches. But I could not help feeling I was leaving my real home for a place where I would always be a visitor.
My dress, once pressed, was creased and stained when I arrived. Although I had combed my hair in preparation for arrival, I knew it was dull and dusty and out of shape from my dozing in an upright position. My mother met me coming off the mail coach in Dublin. I did not notice her at first, a woman cloaked in worn dark cloth, among other similarly attired Dubliners. She touched my shoulder and kissed my cheek quickly, looking down as though not sure she was allowed to take such liberties.
“Harriet, you have grown so beautiful. Is this all you have?” She looked about me at the cobblestones, watching as the driver finished unloading trunks. I carried a small case containing a little embroidery, a copy book, my Lamb’s Shakespeare, my Bible, and one of the gray pinafores I had worn at school.
“I also have a trunk,” I said. My knees buckled and I steadied myself, dazed.
My mother took my case. “Joseph, help your sister.”
It was then that I noticed a small thin boy, eleven or twelve with dark curls, standing a discreet distance away. He smiled shyly. I moved to where my trunk had been left by the side of the road.
“This is mine,” I said and watched him quickly try to gather it in arms, struggling with its weight, finally trying to drag it behind him as he began his way back along the road.
“Joseph!” I smiled. “Let me help you.”
He turned.
“We’ll carry it together.” And so we began our slow walk to my parents’ lodgings, holding the trunk between us like a bridge between islands.
“Harriet, I am roasting some mutton and potatoes for our supper. You must be worn out from your journey. You will have to share a room with your sister, but there is a bed all of your own.” My mother smiled proudly and then sniffed. “I cannot recall when we last ate a meal all together. The five of us. Your father—your father has been poorly. But this last week he has talked only of your return. He will be proud to see you so grown, so lovely and with such learning as he never had.”
My father was standing in the narrow hallway blocking the entrance when we arrived at the shabby Dublin lodgings. The building held the savory aroma of roasting meat and wood smoke.
“My girl!” he said, holding me in his arms until I felt the beginnings of tears. “Let me see you,” he said breathlessly, holding my shoulders away from him. “A fine Juliet! Won’t she make a fine Juliet, Hetta.”
“A fine Juliet, yes. Now let us in, William, I need to see to our supper downstairs.”
“Come.” He led me by the hand to a sitting room with some faded brown armchairs.
“Harriet!” My sister was sitting in an armchair, her legs invisible, a woolen rug draped over her.
“Hello, Anne.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek, pushing her hair away from her eyes so I could see her face. She was pale and thin with bright dark eyes. She looked much younger than her ten years. “May I see your sewing?”
She held the cloth out to me, shyly. “I am making it for you. Mother buys me cotton from the market.”
I peered at the fine stitches. The canvas was bordered by a weaving green vine with small blue flowers. My full name was embroidered in a fine red copperplate, and she had begun to sew a mask beneath. I turned it over in my hands. It was difficult to tell the front from the back.
“It is very good, Anne. What an excellent eye and a steady hand!”
She grinned as I handed it back to her, sinking into a chair.
That evening we ate crammed around a table that should have seated only four and wobbled under the weight of the chipped unmatching crockery. I noticed they had saved the most comfortable chair for me while Joseph perched on a stool and my mother propped herself up with blankets so she could sit tall enough to cut her meat. Each plate contained a morsel of hardened meat and some well-roasted potato pieces. My father had found some sour wine which we drank from preserving jars. Before we commenced our meal, he held his own jar up in the air.
“I would like to thank God for the safe arrival of our Harriet,” he said.
; “The safe arrival of our Harriet,” my mother and siblings chorused, Joseph and Anne raising their child-like voices and their almost-clear drinks heavenward.
As I began to saw at my mutton, I noticed Anne giggling. Joseph, a moment ago so pious, was now rolling his eyes around and around in his head.
“Children,” my mother smiled. “Eat your supper now. It will get cold.”
At the end of the meal, the room began to spin around me and I felt faint. My mother stood and grabbed my arm.
“Come now, Harriet, you are exhausted. I have made up your bed with extra blankets in case you get cold.” She pulled me up and led me from the table.
“Good night, then,” I said to the room at large. My brother and sister watched silently from the table.
With a tenderness I did not remember from childhood, my mother helped me undress and wrapped the blankets around me. She sat on the bed and I closed my eyes, feeling as though I was falling from a great height.
“Harriet, you must never think that we did not love you. But look at you, now. So strong and clever and beautiful. We could never have given you the life and the education that Father Barrett gave you, bless him. Sleep now. We will speak more in the morning.” I felt her lips on my forehead and sensed the dim candlelight moving with her shadow out the door.
DURING THOSE EARLY WEEKS in Dublin I came to know my father. He told me that as a young man he had had no interest in the theater. He was a stonemason, as was his father before him. He said there was warmth in stone, in the very center, and that buildings made of stone would outlast everything else. It was a childhood friend of his who invited him to go along to the theater the night he met my mother.
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