Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  Jenetta James

  I was a young man of six and twenty and my wife had been dead for three months, when the path of my life was changed. The black band about my arm served as a reminder of my misfortune, but so few of my acquaintances appeared even to notice it. That evening was no different. The theatre at Drury Lane was overflowing for The Taming of the Shrew. All around were silken gowns on velvet seats, slippers shuffling across thick, carpeted floors, the collective hum of the ton at leisure. As was my practice, I occupied the box which, since my widowerhood, belonged to me. It was in the dress circle at the far right of the stage and, for this reason, afforded an imperfect view. If I close my eyes now, I can still see it. Approximately half the action in any given performance was obscured. Had my father-in-law been in a position to buy a better one, he would have done so. Alas, he was not, having mere money where he lacked connection; and he settled for the best he could obtain. He could not be criticised for that, of course—for who in the world does not? For myself, I did not mind the position. It was the chief object of attending the theatre to be seen rather than to see the stage, and in any event, I found it oddly enjoyable to have a front row seat for some scenes and practically no view at all of others. Was it not thus in life generally? It was in such philosophies that I sat there, accompanied by my friends, Carnaby and Carruthers, young bloods both. The moan of tuning up in the darkened orchestra pit ceased and a perfect arc of sound announced the raising of the curtain. The stage flooded with busy bodies, with feet thumping here and there, and the exaggerated cries of the opening. I have subsequently come to believe that my eyes quickly fixed on her, that among the sea of performers, I found and focussed on Sarah Light, lifting her arms and declaiming.

  In those days, she was referred to as a “rising star,” a young, promising actress who had been noticed, who haunted the coat-tails of the well-established. She had, of course, the fine face and tapering figure of the successful stage performer. That much was well documented. Those were features that she shared with just about every other young woman in her position. But upon that evening, leaning over the shelf of the box, into the darkness, I saw something else. I observed first her hands, small and fine, unadorned. Next, her face repaid close inspection. Her colouring was far from regular in England. Her hair, which was long, was notably dark, darker than any native girl I had ever met. And her eyes, when she looked up were a deep, liquid pool of wonder. Other parts of her were more ordinarily pretty: her dimpled cheeks, her slightly up turned nose. I found myself studying the very form of the woman before me. She moved to the front of the stage and spoke clearly, her voice singing above heads with ease.

  A sharp jab came to my right side as Carnaby leaned in to address me.

  “I say, man, do sit back. A fellow cannot see.”

  Unaccustomed as I was to be ordered about by my own guests, I did as he suggested, realising that my admiration of the young woman might be a source of amusement to others. There was after all, never a moment at the London theatre where one was not being watched, measured, ascertained.

  “Do not blame you for a moment, mind you. She is bloody fine, is she not?” In the half light, I saw his eye brows flick upwards as he asked and an unfamiliar sickness surged inside me. Unwilling to give the question the dignity of an answer, I remained silent. To the sound of strings and fine trained human voices, I sank back in my seat, luxuriating in the sight of her and the feeling of exhilaration that came with watching action on a stage. One could not expect any sort of appreciation from men such as Carnaby and Carruthers. They were young and rich, and they lived for gaming and drinking. They were good fellows, in their way, but one could not expect to have a conversation about Shakespeare with them.

  The drama drew on, the action rolling through various acts to its natural conclusion. I was never a gentleman who attended the theatre out of a sense of social obligation, I truly enjoyed it. The excessive colour, the sense of display enticed the respectable country boy in me. This fascination was long standing and reinforced what I had known for some time: that the ordinary, unremarkable life of the English country gentleman was not the life for me. Before the play was done, she turned again and her eyes met mine, just as though she had known I was there. I felt a flush of heat and sat forward. She had chosen me.

  * * *

  The audience flooded down the curved staircases, into the foyer below and the cool air of the spring night mingled with the chatter of a hundred voices. Raucous bellows of laughter met shrieks of mock surprise. Faces I knew blinked at me through the passing candlelit crowd. They seemed to appear all at once: fellows from my club, old Lady Etherington with whom my mother once claimed an acquaintance, nameless young women who knew my wife. I made no efforts to speak with any of them and found that after the play, I yearned for the sharp air of the street. It was as we emerged into the darkness that Carnaby made his suggestion.

  “I say, I hear that there is a gathering at Brackbury’s tonight. All of London is going. Interested Elliot? I know Carruthers will be game.”

  “Why is that? Shall there be guaranteed opportunities for losing one’s money?”

  “Well of course, man. Why go there if not?”

  Having said it, he exploded with laughter at his own wit. I have known Carnaby for ten years, and one can set one’s watch by his ability to amuse himself.

  “I am sorry, Carnaby. I am in no mood for cards. And in any case, I have not been invited by the host.”

  “Good god, man! It isn’t that sort of party. Sometimes I think you are verily of the last century. Nobody in Town cares about such conventions, apart from dusty, old dowagers.”

  There was something in what he said, of course. Time had moved on and fashions and sensibilities had changed, particularly among the young and rich, the fast as we—they—were sometimes called. The trick—for a trick it was—was knowing who one was dealing with. Only then could one appear at best advantage. As a matter of fact, I was good at cards, being in possession of an accurate memory and an inscrutable face. I played to win and frequently did. This I did from habit rather than necessity, for since my marriage, I had been in no want of funds. Carnaby continued to prattle at my side, talking of gaming dens and fashionable dances. A gentle breeze met the back of my head, and I began to think, why not? I had nowhere else to go, save back to the ostentatious house of my late wife. I should say “my house” but somehow could not quite form the words in my mind.

  “Go on, man! Be a sport about it.”

  “You are a hound of a man, Carruthers. Yes. Why not? Let us go.”

  So it was, that some twenty minutes later, we alighted from my carriage at the home of Lord Brackbury. Even on the street outside, the hum of revelry was plain and unabashed. Fine coaches jostled for spaces and a watchful servant stood at the door admitting people as though they were attending a public sport. The first sight I saw was a young woman in a red dress kissing a well-known rake on the lips, and money changing hands over Loo, and many other games besides. It was the sort of scene the elderly look upon and lament. But we were young men, not in the business of lamentation and before long we were observers no longer— participants, absorbed into the thronging pit.

  The night passed well enough. Carruthers was last seen with a young woman’s arm laced through his, and Carnaby was happily ensconced at the Hazard table. For myself, I drank and briefly spoke with passing dandies and the sister of a friend, who had lately married into that set. I made it a study to slot into any situation when it presented itself to me. My manners, I knew, were polished and agreeable, and although I had grown up in the country, this manner of gathering had nothing to intimidate me. I noticed that there were a number of theatre types about, an actress, whose name had slipped my mind, and a young lawyer with noble connections, who was known to socialise with men of the theatre in preference to his own sort. A kind of louchness, an eccentricity of design, hung about them like a cloud that would not clear. An involuntary yawn emerged from my mouth and the merits o
f departing appeared to me to be great.

  When I saw Sarah Light sipping from a cup of punch beside an elaborately dressed older lady, I fancied myself imagining it. She made for a strangely still figure in the madness all around her and when her companion whispered in her ear, she smiled slowly, almost as though she were somewhere else. Her dress was simple, but her form no less compelling than it had been on the stage, and I grew suddenly hot. Of course, it was a warm room and far too full of persons moving about. For a moment, I contemplated her.

  I was familiar with the trappings of being on the stage, particularly for a woman. In common with all people, high, or low, I knew that an actress could generally be purchased like a side of meat. Between the boards of the theatre stage and the thin walls of the brothel house, there was a fine line fixed. Every man knew that. Thus, it was that so many of her fellow actresses dressed as if to snare a man in the most obvious way. But there was Sarah Light, and it was not so. She wore an attractive, ordinary gown rather than the more lurid affairs displayed beside her. I had the sense, as I had had at the theatre, of light and life shining on her and through her. She appeared to me a woman beyond the obvious, a person possessing more than met the eye.

  Observing her elderly friend move off and Miss Light finish her cup, I acted on impulse. Making my way towards the serving girl in the corner, I obtained two further cups of punch and, blind to all in my path, sliced through the crowd to where she stood.

  “Miss Light,” I bowed, respectfully before looking up. “I observed you to be without a drink, Miss, and it struck me that would never do. I saw your performance this evening, and it seems to me the least you deserve from the public is refreshment.”

  To this, she smiled and gave a shrug that seemed to say, “Welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is extremely solicitous of you. And alert as well, for I observed at least six gentlemen asleep in this evening’s audience.”

  I could not but laugh at this. It struck me that for all I enjoyed my view of others from the box, the stage must afford the best view.

  “Now that I can hardly credit. But I suppose it must be true, for you are the best judge, there on the stage.”

  “I do develop a great memory for faces, sir, row after row of them in the half light. I must say that sometimes, they look very amusing indeed. Although, I am sure that you do not ever look anything other than distinguished and gentlemanly.” She paused and admired my clothing, as well she might, for it was very fine. I was accustomed to young dandies asking me how I tied my cravat or ladies remarking upon the silk of my waistcoat and the like. And yet, the way Sarah Light regarded me made me wish that she thought of the man beneath as well as his attire. For a moment, I was lost in that thought.

  “But I do not have a name to put to that face.”

  She turned to me and her eyes were like chocolate. Confusion mounted within me and I felt odd, disconnected.

  “A name?”

  “Your name, sir. What is it? Or would you rather not tell me?”

  “Of course. I am sorry, madam. I am Mr. William Elliot, Miss Light.”

  “Mr. Elliot. What a simple, graceful name that is. English to the core, I think?”

  “Yes. It is. My family are the Elliots of Kellynch, in Somersetshire. There have been Elliots at Kellynch for generations. It is said that Elizabeth I visited the house on one of her progresses, or some such. You know the sort of story, Miss Light; old English families are full of them—and they can never quite recall the details. The baronetcy held by my cousin, Sir Walter, dates back to the fifteen hundreds. We are, as they say, as old as the hills.”

  “But not you personally. You appear young. Or if you are not young, then you hide your age well.”

  “I will accept that as a compliment, Miss Light, for I am sure that I am older than you. It would be unpardonable for me to ask your age, so I shall tell you mine. I am six and twenty, am I besting your estimate?”

  “Spot on, sir. My powers of observation have not deserted me, clearly.”

  She must, in my estimation be remarkably observant. For if she were not, she could not act so well. I have acted in various roles all my life and know as well as anyone, that before imitation, comes study. I was pondering this aspect of unexpected commonality between us when we were set upon by a gaggle of women, who appeared to know Miss Light. I took them for members of the theatrical community, as indeed they turned out to be. It would be ungallant to say that they were drunk, so let it be enough that they were merry. Their bodies rocked with laughter as they imparted gossip to their friend, meaningless to me, whilst drips of rich punch trailed down their fingers as they laughed. They appeared most anxious to speak of our host—Lord Brackbury—whom I had not seen at all. I found myself caught between horror and interest, but most of all, I noted how deftly Miss Light dealt with their presence. She smiled and laughed affectionately, she touched her fine hand to another woman’s arm as she spoke. I may have flushed when she introduced me as her “friend, Mr. Elliot.” After a period of time, probably shorter than it felt, they departed to prey on assorted men. Miss Light turned to me and spoke softly, confidingly.

  “I do apologise for my friends, Mr. Elliot. They work most industriously and when they are not at work, they can be rather exuberant.”

  “They seem like very good company. Are those ladies also actresses in your play?”

  “Yes, they are. I shall not let on to them that you did not immediately recognise them.” She looked up at me through laughing eyes. “Those who sit in the audience do not generally realise, and indeed, why should they? But it is a gruelling life, Mr. Elliot. The hours and hours of practice, the days lost in rehearsal. The nights lost as well. All to the purpose of producing a perfect piece, to keep the paying public happy, and the theatre owner in clover.”

  “And to tell the story, to connect with one hundred men and women who know you not. To appear exactly as you should be at a given moment in time—to convince. You make it sound inconsequential, but I do not think it is.”

  “Thank you. I did not intend that, but I am impressed that you think so deeply about it, Mr. Elliot. To most young men, the theatre is not so much an art form as a means of entertainment, sometimes quite base entertainment. What a singular gentleman you are.”

  I was almost lost in conversation with her. It began with an unwarranted wish to speak with her, to be an audience of one. After a short time, it was as though we really knew one another. I could hardly account for it. We spoke of the different towns that she had visited with her theatrical company, and the poor food and amusing local manners of various places. We laughed, and I tried to recall the last time I had really done so. It transpired that she had been in a production of Macbeth at Bristol some years previously, and I laughed to imagine my cousin Sir Walter sitting discomforted in the audience, his moustache quivering. It was simply a momentary diversion for me, rather than a likely truth, of course. My esteemed cousin would never have travelled such a distance to observe others when he could remain at home and consider himself. We progressed from there to discussing my family connections and their place in the world. I had never intended to talk about myself, but somehow, I was pulled along by her. When I spoke about my lineage, she appeared to be impressed, so I continued.

  “I am not surprised, Mr. Elliot. You have a refined look about you. Are you a native of Somerset, then?”

  “No. I myself grew up in Hertfordshire, with time in London, of course. My parents sadly have passed, and I have since spent very little time in the country. I find I am a town mouse, Miss Light. I like the bustle, the crowds, the theatre, of course.”

  She smiled at this and it quite warmed me.

  “There shall come a time in life, when my cousin dies, and I shall have to take up residence at Kellynch. But before that day is at hand, I intend to delight in the variety of the capital.”

  “Indeed sir? Why shall that be?”

  “Because when my esteemed cousin, Sir Walter Elliot, breathe
s his last, I am set to inherit the baronetcy. He has no sons.”

  “How sad for him. But I imagine that will suit you, Mr. Elliot.”

  “I am ill equipped to judge. I would like to think that I may do the title justice.”

  I was silent for a moment, pondering the ill feeling between my cousin and myself. I was not in the habit of falling out with people who may be useful to me, regardless of their characters. It was on that basis that I regretted being cut off by Sir Walter. I recalled his outraged face, his unsteady hand dismissing me, his disappointed daughter beside him, and would like to replace that history with another. He had asked of me that which I could not give, but that did not mean we must remain at daggers drawn. There was no sense in it. A sense of brooding rising up in me, I hastened to move the conversation on.

  “Miss Light, there is one matter that confuses me. A moment ago, you suggested that I may not wish to tell you my name. As it is, I have given you my name and half of my family history. But I must say, that it struck me as a singular utterance. Why would any respectable person not give their name to a new acquaintance?”

  “If their purpose were not respectable, sir. Or perhaps, if they suspected the new acquaintance they addressed were at a disadvantage to themselves when it came to respectability.”

  “Surely not? Could any person be so rude?”

  I was perfectly aware of how men treated actresses, of course, and the manner in which they might be regarded. But her voice was so steady and clear, her face so deserving of respect, I found it hard to credit that Sarah Light suffered thus. For a moment, I began to burn with fury and indignation that any person would approach her thus. My fists clenched at my sides, and I felt the urge to knock a man down. Could they not see at a glance that she was so much worthier than she might be? Before long, her gaggle of female friends appeared with more punch and the news that Brackbury had at last appeared. Thus, the graceful figure of Sarah Light was borne away from me into the heady cacophony of the ton at play.