“There’s two rooms,” announced Mary bluntly.
The first was small, its only furniture a bed, a table with two hard chairs, and a wooden bench long enough for about one-and-a-half people to sit. There were no curtains, and the meagre grate did not look as if it would hold much of a fire. Aurora thanked Providence that it was springtime.
Still Edward did not look at her, but he took in his surroundings quickly, then gestured to Mary to open the door to the inner room. This turned out to be even smaller, set into the eaves, and furnished only with a bed and a table, on which Mary put the candle. Aurora went to the tiny window. The glass was too dirty to see through, but she could hear horses and passers-by in the street below. She supposed this would be her bedroom.
Longing swept over her, to be in her real bedroom at home, falling asleep to the sounds of the dying fire and Flora’s regular breathing. She ignored it. “Edward, my dear,” she said, “these rooms are perfect. Will you settle with Mr Marshall, while I discuss domestic concerns with … Mary, is it?”
The maid nodded. “Breakfast brought up, no other meals,” she told them. “Bedlinen provided. Washin’ extra.”
“Of course,” said Edward. “My sister will see that you are paid for your work. Now, is there a man to help bring our luggage from the Black Swan?”
“William,” said Mary in her economical way. “Don’t like porterin’, but if you give ’im something for ’is trouble, sir…”
Edward had already left the room. “Very well!” Aurora heard him call from the stairs. “Aurora, I will be back forthwith!”
Mary and Aurora regarded each other. “Will you bring the linen?” asked Aurora. “And candles?”
The maid gave a very small curtsey. “Yes, ’m.”
She seemed to be waiting. Aurora resisted. “Very well, you may go,” she said, and, in a gesture of dismissal she had often seen her mother use, began to loosen her hat-strings. “I wish to rest.”
Mary took the candle and stumped down the stairs, leaving Aurora in utter darkness. She removed her hat, feeling the familiar woven straw between her fingers. Her heart trotted a little. She thought about her trunk being half carried, half dragged from the inn where Richard’s carriage had deposited Edward and herself an hour ago. Before they had left Hartford House, Richard had given Edward a sealed packet that Aurora suspected contained money. Edward had shaken his friend’s hand, then embraced him. “Until we meet again, my dear Richard. May God bless you,” he had told him earnestly.
Aurora felt for the edge of the bed and sat on it, her brain busy. In a little under a month she would be free of her promise. Meanwhile, she must live as Miss Drayton, beholden to a husband of three days, whose only bargaining power lay in a fortune he did not possess. She was not sure that she could do what he wanted, anyway. And if Miss Drayton’s true identity should be quickly exposed, who would bear the consequences?
A commotion on the stairs brought her to her feet. She felt her way to the door. In the outer room Edward and a skinny boy of about sixteen were manhandling the luggage while Mary trudged about, putting a taper to the wall candles.
“Very well, that will be all!” Edward maintained the cheerful demeanour he had obviously decided should characterize Edward Drayton’s dealings with servants. “A penny for your trouble, William!” He fished in his pocket and inspected the coins in his palm. “No, tuppence!”
The boy disappeared with no word of thanks, followed sulkily by Mary. Edward closed the door. “Good God, what a useless boy!” He reached into the deep pocket in the lining of his coat and produced a bottle of wine. “This will warm us, inside and out.” He set the bottle on the table. “No glasses, but you are not averse to drinking from the bottle, are you? This miserable place needs something to cheer it up, and a bottle of wine is as good as anything.”
Aurora would rather have had a hot cup of chocolate from a coffee house, but she smiled at Edward’s expectant face. His demeanour was strikingly different from that of the man who had proposed to her in her mother’s parlour. He no longer stooped; his back was as straight as her own. He wore a plain coat over a waistcoat trimmed with a narrow twirl of gold thread, and a short wig. His eyes remained shadowed, to be sure, but they had lost their blank look.
“You look as pleased with yourself as a truant schoolboy,” she told him.
“I feel a little like a truant schoolboy,” he confessed, pushing the stopper from the bottleneck and wiping the lip on his shirt-tail. His anxiety, which must have been relentless throughout the period since his father’s death, had given way to euphoria. He sat down at the table. “Here, you have the first draught.”
Aurora immediately felt the wine comforting her chilled body. She drank again, then passed the bottle to Edward, who closed his eyes in satisfaction as he swallowed. Then he put the bottle down and turned his gaze steadily upon Aurora. There it was again: the thin, unsmiling mouth, shadowed cheeks, bright black eyes. The same face that had beseeched her to take pity on him at Dacre Street that day. And yet, now she had become more familiar with it, it was not the same face. It was no longer the face of a lovelorn consumptive. Aurora could not describe it as the face of a man of action, but in it she saw conviction and purpose.
“Drink again,” he said. “You are shivering.”
Aurora put the bottle to her lips but took a very small sip, unwilling to fortify her nerves at the risk of blunting her judgement. “I am shivering, I confess, because I am fearful.”
“I doubt it not,” Edward assured her gently. “If Josiah Deede discovers you are an impostor, I cannot predict what he will do.”
“We neither of us can.” She took another small sip. “I do not know what to think. This has happened so quickly; my brain is a-whirl.”
He again took the bottle. “Your brain is about to be tested. You must begin your task tonight.”
“Tonight?” Aurora was surprised. “What would you have me do?”
“Attend the play at the Theatre Royal.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
It was rare for a young woman to appear unchaperoned in public, even at the notoriously laissez-faire Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.
“But—” began Aurora.
“You must seem friendless, or there is no point.”
“But why must I go there?”
Edward leaned towards her. “The actor who played my man-servant yesterday is acquainted with Josiah Deede’s son,” he explained. “He says Deede the younger is at Drury Lane almost every night. He will be one of the rowdiest of the ‘bloods’, you may be sure. You must draw attention to yourself in some way so that he notices you, and when he sees that you are alone, he may approach you.”
“But how will I know him?”
“You will not,” replied Edward tolerantly. “But someone will. Half of fashionable London will be there. If you use that brain, a-whirl or not, you will find him.”
“And if I fail?” Aurora was beginning to wish she had not taken even one mouthful of the wine.
“Then we will try again tomorrow night.”
“We?”
He gave her a sheepish look. “Do not scold me, Aurora. This plan will only work if the Deedes suspect nothing. Father and son have seen me, but they have never laid eyes on you. Now, get your hat.”
“My dear, are you alone? How shocking!”
“Not quite alone,” Aurora replied to the hawk-nosed woman who had taken the seat next to hers. She hoped the woman was shocked only by her solitude, and not her appearance. Having no knowledge of the fashions of the Theatre Royal, and no time to find out, she had donned the dress she had been married in. Strenuous tugging on her corset-strings had produced a bosom more uplifted than usual, over which she had resisted the temptation to place a lace kerchief, and she had added a bunch of pink and blue ribbons to the brim of her new hat. With one of her hands she held a draw-string bag in a pink striped material – a cast-off of Flora’s – and with the other she put up her lace-t
rimmed mask in front of her face. “My mask and I are good companions, madam.”
“How droll you are! And how very pretty!” the woman exclaimed in delight. “I insist that you lower that mask immediately, and permit the gentlemen to see your beauty.” Her gaze flicked around the auditorium and up to the boxes. “I see several of them have noticed you already, and are asking one another who you are. Tell me, where is your mama?”
Aurora lowered her mask and gave a small sigh. “I confess, madam, I have no mama, or papa. My elder brother and I have come but lately to London. He is in ill health, and stays at our lodging day after day. But I so long to meet people! I gather that to attend the theatre is permissible, as long as I choose a seat in a suitable part of the theatre, which I hope I have done.”
“Oh, you certainly have!” The woman – whose décolletage and short, lace-flounced sleeves seemed to Aurora more appropriate to a younger woman than their wearer – shifted in her seat, indicating her neighbour, a man older than herself, with an important wig and a face as round as hers was long. “This is where all the best people sit. May I introduce my husband, Mr Horace Fellowes? I am Mrs Anne Fellowes. And you are…?”
“Miss Drayton. Aurora is my name,” said Aurora, nodding a greeting. “I am very pleased to meet you both.”
Mr Fellowes opened his mouth, but his wife did not allow him to speak. “Aurora! Divine name!” she cried. “We shall take care of you, my dear Miss Drayton, and introduce you to whomever you wish to meet. We know everyone, do we not, Mr Fellowes? And Miss Drayton is all alone! Her brother is in ill health, you see…”
The play was beginning, but the spectators were more interested in one another than in the performance. Aurora, who had not been to the theatre since before her father died, could not resist watching the actors for a few minutes, and admiring the opulence of their costumes. But the play was not what she had come here for. She put up her mask and observed the audience.
Aurora was the only unescorted young woman present. There were plenty of girls whose behaviour left no one in any doubt of their husband-seeking intentions, but they were in groups, or at least pairs. As for the young men, whose interest in Aurora had been pointed out by Mrs Fellowes, they crowded noisily into seats as near as possible to, or even on, the stage.
“Women whisper and giggle; only men shout and guffaw,” was one of Mrs Eversedge’s favourite admonishments, particularly of Flora’s more exuberant behaviour. Aurora noticed plenty of all four activities, and the resultant hubbub which rose in volume whenever the audience showed its appreciation of something in the play.
She was amused when one of the actors, losing patience at the constant interruptions, invited a young man to come and play the part himself. The young man, whose seat was at the side of the stage, made to do so, but was pulled back by his companions. During the uproar, Aurora got a good view of the men Edward had referred to as the “bloods”.
Bewigged, gorgeously dressed in silk waistcoats, white stockings and silver-buckled shoes, with decorated sword sheaths at their sides and plumed hats on their heads, their behaviour was as flamboyant as their appearance. They conversed continually, turning or even standing in order to address a friend several yards away. One group was playing cards, ignoring the action of the play altogether. Aurora could not help feeling a little offended on behalf of the actors. Why did these wealthy young men not go to a coffee house, where they could be as noisy and objectionable as they liked with no trouble to anyone but themselves?
Edward had said that if Josiah Deede’s foppish son was anywhere in the theatre tonight, he would be amongst the bloods. He was probably one of the best dressed, having adorned himself using Edward’s money. If he were here tonight, she must make his acquaintance at all costs. But, she wondered, how could she possibly find out which one he might be?
“Did you enjoy the play, my dear?” asked Mrs Fellowes as the actors took their bow.
“Very much,” replied Aurora. “Especially the impromptu entertainment provided by our friend over there.” She nodded towards the unfolding comic scene as the young man who had tried to take the stage was hastened to the door, so drunk he was scarcely able to stand, but still protesting that he was as good an actor as anyone. “And it was quite free of charge!”
Mrs Fellowes laughed. “Oh, I have seen that fellow do worse than that. Once he tried to carry off the leading lady over his shoulder. He is always intoxicated, I am afraid to say. I do not know why the management of this theatre does not ban him.”
“Because he is rich, perhaps? And has many friends?”
“Aye, very likely,” smiled Mrs Fellowes.
Aurora seized her opportunity. “Do you know his name? Is he a titled gentleman?”
Mrs Fellowes tapped Aurora lightly on the arm with her fan. “You may be lately arrived in London, but I see you are quickly finding your way in society!”
Aurora smiled archly.
“He is indeed a titled gentleman,” continued Mrs Fellowes. “The younger son of the Earl of Strathnairn. Neither his father nor his elder brother can do anything to persuade him to be more serious. Or more sober, if you will forgive my little play on words.”
Aurora giggled obediently. “They evidently have a task on their hands! And do you know any of the young men who accompanied him tonight? If there is a ‘sober’ one amongst them I would dearly love to know his name!”
“Now, let me see…” Mrs Fellowes frowned and pursed her lips. “I saw Lord Meethorpe, and that awful man Henry Mathias who leers at all the women, married or not. He has even made eyes at me, my dear, if you can believe it!”
Aurora bowed her head politely. “And who else?” she prompted. They had left their seats and were being carried, it seemed to Aurora, upon the lava-flow of the departing audience. She had seldom felt so hot and in need of fresh air.
“Oh, Mr Thomas Field was there as usual. He is some sort of writer, I believe, though like all of them he never seems to do any work. My husband, who knows his father well, says the family despairs of him.”
Aurora was beginning to despair too. Mrs Fellowes had said that she and her husband knew everyone, and would introduce Aurora to whomever she liked. But here they were, surrounded by people, and she had not met anyone. She decided to clutch at a straw. “May I be introduced to Mr Thomas Field, if we can locate him?” she asked. “Since Mr Fellowes knows the family. My brother is a writer, you see, and writers always like to make one another’s acquaintance.”
“You are so right, my dear!” The crowd was thinning out. Mrs Fellowes stood on her toes and scanned the remaining faces. “Oh! That might be him, with the brown hat. No, it is not.” She turned to Aurora, dismayed. “I fear we are too late, and he and his friends are already in some inn, carousing, I dare say.”
“Alas, but no matter,” said Aurora. “I shall come to the theatre again soon.”
“Then you must come with us,” said Mrs Fellowes kindly. “Mr Fellowes, tell Miss Drayton where she will find our house. You are welcome to call, my dear. I am always at home in the afternoons.”
By this time they had reached the steps in front of the theatre. Flares lit the bluish May night. Despite the lateness of the hour, Covent Garden was still noisy with carriages, horses and the hum of conversation. Aurora could smell the familiar stench of the wagons carrying the contents of each dwelling’s “house of office”. Aurora had no use for this polite term. At home they always called it the privy.
“You will find us in Tavistock Street,” Mr Fellowes informed her. “The house next to the shop at the sign of the Sun and Falcon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Although her companions had not yet departed, Aurora felt very lonely. This evening’s escapade had not proved entirely fruitless, but she wished she had something more newsworthy than her meeting with this friendly couple to report to Edward. At least she could assure him that he had been right to choose a young girl as his accomplice. How quickly her lack of companions, female or male, h
ad been noticed!
“Why, Celia, my dear!” came Mrs Fellowes’s excited voice. “Have you been here all evening? How ever did I miss you?”
Aurora turned to see her new acquaintance enthusiastically embracing a fair-haired girl. This girl, who was shorter of stature than Aurora, was finely dressed in a beribboned yellow gown and embroidered underskirt, and gazed upon the world from blue eyes in a heart-shaped face.
“Yes, we were here,” she said, smiling. “I saw you from the balcony, Mrs Fellowes, but you were so busy speaking to your companion I did not call to you.”
The thought flitted across Aurora’s mind that Mrs Fellowes’s company, useful though it was to Aurora herself, might not be so desirable to other young people. But this girl maintained her countenance and regarded Aurora with a very engaging air.
“Is this young lady a relative of yours, Mrs Fellowes?” she asked. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“No, we are not related, more’s the pity, considering her beauty.” Mrs Fellowes grinned at both girls, who smiled obligingly in return. “This is Miss Aurora Drayton, who is recently moved to London and is tonight making her first appearance at the theatre.”
Aurora curtseyed self-consciously, aware that her dress was not so near the height of fashion as that of the golden-haired girl, nor her hairstyle so intricate, nor her hat so gorgeously trimmed. But the torture of the tight corset had been worth it; the boldness of her décolletage and the smallness of her waist could stand up to any scrutiny.
“Aurora,” said Mrs Fellowes, “this is Miss Celia Deede, the daughter of my late good friend Mrs Philomena Deede. Celia and her family live in Tavistock Street too.”
Vice and Virtue Page 5