The next morning, she woke warm and dreamily sated in a tangle of bedcovers to find herself alone. “Junius?” she called, sitting up and drawing the coverlet around herself.
“I’m here.”
He sat at a table near the window, pen in hand. Sleet pelted the window and outside the sky was leaden gray, but Junius’s face was radiant as he looked up from his writing to admire her.
“Come back to bed,” she said, smiling. “We won’t be able to sail today.”
“I will, as soon as I finish this letter.”
Her contentment vanished. “To Adelaide?” He nodded and returned his attention to the page. “What will you tell her?”
“That I hope she’s enjoying her visit to Brussels and that her family is in good health. I’ll ask her to kiss the boy for me, and I’ll send her five pounds.”
“You’ll say nothing more? Nothing of our elopement?”
“Good God, no. With any luck, she’ll never know.”
Mary Ann stared at him for a long moment, then lay back upon her pillow and gazed up at the ceiling, unsettled. But by the time Junius came back to bed, she had summoned up the courage to tell him they must return to London. Before she could speak, his kisses silenced her, and soon thereafter his caresses reminded her that she could never go back, nor did she want to.
The next morning dawned clear and calm, and they sailed for France. For a fortnight Junius performed in Boulogne-sur-Mer and Calais, but the reviews were not so glowing that he was tempted to linger. Instead Junius decided that he should tour the West Indies.
Their ship crossed the Channel and stopped at Dover, where, wary of discovery, they went ashore only long enough to stretch their legs and to purchase a little piebald pony they named Peacock. Their ship next stopped at Madeira, an island about three hundred and fifty miles off the coast of Morocco, so enchantingly beautiful that they decided to extend their visit several weeks. But Junius had to earn a living, and as their blissful holiday came to an end, they pondered whether to continue on to the West Indies or to choose some other destination.
They had not yet settled the question when Mary Ann discovered that she was with child.
She feared Junius would be angry or disappointed, for a child would change everything, but to her relief, Junius was delighted. He became even more tender and solicitous toward her, albeit increasingly worried about their amorphous plans. When he wrote to several trusted friends seeking their advice, it was the philosopher William Godwin who urged them to sail for America.
“He warns me that the only way to avoid the scourge of public disapproval is to leave the country,” Junius said.
“We’ve already left our country,” Mary Ann reminded him. “Must we go all the way to America?”
“Overseas we can start anew.” Junius knelt at her feet and clasped her hands. “In America, no one will know that you aren’t my wife—and even if the secret did come out, Americans are individualists, tolerant and free-thinking. They wouldn’t care.”
Mary Ann doubted that assumption very much, but Junius did his best to reassure her, and eventually he overcame her objections with the plain truth that they had no better recourse.
One bright May morning, Mary Ann woke to find Junius much as she had on their first morning together in Deal, at a table by the window writing letters. First he wrote to his father to ask him to call on Mary Ann’s parents and inform them that she was going to America to live with Junius, and that she would be safe, loved, and well looked after.
The second letter, which took much longer to compose, was for Adelaide.
English audiences had grown weary of him, Junius wrote, and his recent tour of the Continent had shown him that fickle European theatergoers too had become indifferent. Across the Atlantic, however, grateful Americans starved for culture would turn out in droves to see him, increasing his fame and his fortune. He might be abroad several years, he warned, but with his letter he would enclose enough money for Adelaide and their son to live on for a year, and he would send her fifty pounds per annum thereafter, more if his fortunes soared as he anticipated.
Junius and Mary Ann booked passage on the next ship to America, a small freighter bound for Virginia with a cargo of wine. The Two Brothers was not suited to carry passengers, but after Junius quietly explained Mary Ann’s delicate condition, the captain gave them his own quarters in exchange for an ample fee paid in gold.
Passing themselves off as husband and wife, they spent the crossing in relative comfort, keeping mostly to themselves. Junius reviewed his repertoire and planned his tour, while Mary Ann aired, mended, and refurbished his costumes, crushed from many weeks stuffed inside his trunk with his greasepaint, scripts, and old playbills. She had always had a deft hand with a needle, but since their arrival in France when she had assumed the role of Junius’s wardrobe mistress, she had perfected her skills. Perhaps she could not advise him on matters of business as Adelaide had done, but she was determined that he would have the finest costumes of any tragedian on the American stage.
Forty-four days after they departed Madeira, the Two Brothers landed in Norfolk, Virginia, a humble, rustic settlement of about eight thousand residents on the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. It was as unlike Mary Ann’s beloved London as it was possible for a town to be.
“This is only a trading post,” Junius hastened to assure her as the Two Brothers approached the wharf and she stoically took in the view of ramshackle buildings, warehouses, and gambling dens along the shore, and the vast, dense wilderness beyond. “We won’t remain long.”
Mary Ann forced a smile and took his arm as they disembarked. She needed a moment to adjust to the feeling of solid pavement beneath her shoes, but even as she did, a dreadful sight nearly staggered her. “Junius,” she gasped, tightening her grip on his arm.
Although some unscrupulous Englishmen still engaged in the slave trade at sea, English common law did not recognize slavery. As soon as an enslaved person set foot on English soil and breathed English air, he was free. Mary Ann had known that slavery still flourished in some regions of America, despite the citizens’ exaltation of the ideals of liberty and freedom. And yet until that moment she had never seen Africans in chains, clad in rags, thin and hollow-eyed with hunger. The harrowing sight sickened her.
“I see them,” Junius murmured, resting his hand upon hers in a gesture that failed to comfort. “The poor, wretched souls!”
Horrified, Mary Ann could not tear her gaze away. On one bare back she glimpsed interlaced scars, the mark of the lash; on another, welts like intertwined initials burned into the skin.
“Oh, my.” Mary Ann covered her mouth with her hand, feeling faint. “Oh, Junius. Some of them have been branded, like—like livestock.”
“My dear, I’m grieved to say that, to slave owners, these unfortunate men and women are little more than livestock.”
Junius swiftly arranged for a porter to collect their luggage and led her away from the waterfront and its harrowing, heartbreaking sights. They settled in a modest hotel, but thankfully, Junius’s prediction that they would not linger in Norfolk proved true. Within a matter of days he had booked a two-week engagement in Richmond, where a grand new theatre, the Marshall, had recently been completed. From the deck of the steamer that carried them up the James River to the state capital, Mary Ann was much relieved to see grand public buildings and elegant residences rising on the steep hills along the shore. “Civilization at last,” she murmured, patting Peacock’s flank as they disembarked. It was not London, with its libraries and cathedrals and bustling public squares, but it was a far cry from the wild frontier.
Within days, Junius’s successful American debut reassured her that they had not made a dreadful mistake in immigrating to the young nation.
Junius selected Richard III for opening night, enthralling the novelty-hungry citizens of Richmond and earning rapturous praise from
the local press. As word of the celebrated English tragedian’s arrival spread beyond the city, invitations from theatre managers in New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, and New Orleans filled the postbox at their hotel, each expressing the most anxious desire to book Junius for lengthy engagements, each offering enticingly generous terms. As he mulled over their proposals, Junius earned more than twelve hundred dollars playing theatres in Richmond and nearby Petersburg.
In early October, Junius and Mary Ann traveled by steamer to New York City, a bold but necessary choice for his next engagement. His longtime rival Edmund Kean had triumphed there only a few months before, packing the stylish new Park Theatre every night and winning rapturous acclaim from the critics. If Junius hoped to establish himself well in America, he would have to surpass Kean in the eyes of the most discerning theatergoers in the most important city in the nation.
“The house will be half empty,” Junius growled, stalking in his dressing room on opening night as an icy downpour raged outside. Broadway was flooded, one of the supernumeraries had reported, and traffic was in a wretched snarl throughout the city. “I’ll be lucky if it isn’t more than half empty.”
“Junius, calm yourself,” Mary Ann cajoled. On tour, Junius could be cheerful and enthusiastic one night and bleakly melancholic the next, swearing that he would not perform, that he despised acting and would never again take the stage. On such occasions it fell to her to quietly reassure panicky managers that the show would go on, and then to soothe and charm Junius until he reluctantly agreed to perform. Sometimes a glass of brandy was necessary to fortify him to face audiences he had inexplicably decided could not possibly comprehend his interpretation of classical works. Junius was always loving and kind at heart, but he could be mercurial, as she supposed most great artists were. Byron’s tempests were legendary.
“I was mad to leave London,” Junius grated, pausing to glare balefully out the single tiny window. “I’m beloved in London.”
“You are also beloved here, by me,” she told him, ignoring the sting of his words, “and you will soon be beloved by the people of New York—but only if you take the stage and give them the performance they expect and have paid for.”
“I’ll return every cent if they’ll just go away.”
“The management will never agree to that.” Mary Ann approached him from behind, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek upon his back between his shoulder blades. “Please, my dearest. You know everything depends upon tonight.”
He knew it, and eventually he agreed to emerge from his dressing room. The murmur of the crowd struck them as soon as they stepped into the hall, and the usual backstage odors of dust and paint were overpowered by those of damp leather and steaming wool. Junius halted, thunderstruck. “Mary Ann, darling—”
She knew what he wanted. Nodding, she hurried away and stole a peek at the house through a spy hole drilled through the wall in the wings at stage right.
Every seat was filled.
The two thousand hearty souls who had ventured out in the tempest for the New York debut of the celebrated tragedian Junius Brutus Booth were rewarded with the most magnificent, sublime performance they had ever beheld. Watching from the wings as the curtain fell and the applause and cheers rang on and on, Mary Ann beamed and smiled through tears of joy as Junius took one solemn, dignified bow after another. The next morning, the newspapers echoed the accolades he had received onstage, praising him in the most rapturous phrases.
The remaining six performances of his engagement were no less gloriously done, no less wonderfully received. On the last night, overwhelmed with gratitude, Junius broke his custom of refusing curtain calls to bow respectfully to the delighted audience. “I cannot properly express my feelings at the unexpected honor you show me,” he called out, his warm, powerful voice thrilling listeners from the footlights to the back row. “I swear I will never forget the great kindness you have shown me, a humble traveling player in a foreign land.”
At the end of October they left New York, and on the first day of November, Junius opened to packed houses in Baltimore. Next the tour carried them along to Charleston, where Mary Ann delighted in the picturesque streets, the ocean breezes, and the blessedly mild climate. Since she was nearing the time of her confinement, she and Junius decided that she should remain in their comfortable boardinghouse under the care of their solicitous landlady while he completed his tour of the southern United States alone.
Junius was spellbinding audiences in far-off New Orleans a few days before Christmas when Mary Ann gave birth to a vigorous baby boy, perfect in every way, with ten wonderful little fingers, ten darling little toes, and strong legs that kicked off his swaddling clothes whenever she lay him down in the secondhand cradle she had bought from a neighbor.
Her midwives had been skilled and reassuring, and no doctor had crossed her threshold from the moment her labor pains came upon her until she held her son, Junius Brutus Booth Jr., in her trembling arms. Her milk came quickly and easily, and she was on her feet the next day. On Christmas morning she celebrated her own newborn miracle with her landlady and other residents of the boardinghouse, grateful for the distraction of a celebration, for she missed Junius terribly.
Nor was he the only loved one she longed to see on that holy day.
While the baby slept, Mary Ann took pen in hand, steeled her courage, and wrote to her parents. Tears filled her eyes as she apologized for the way she had left them, for the shock and uncertainty they must have endured. She asked for their forgiveness, assured them she was safe, and described, rather hurriedly, the cities she had visited and the curious American customs she had discovered. She wanted to tell them every detail about Junius’s triumphs on the American stage, but she knew any praise for the man they surely considered a villain would be wasted, so she said only that his success was exceeding their expectations.
“I have glad tidings that I hope you will greet with as much joy as I feel in sharing them,” she wrote. “On December 22, we welcomed a beautiful son into the world. He is healthy and strong, and I am well recovered. I hope to bring him home to England to meet his grandparents someday.”
She felt a pang of guilt for the careful phrasing that suggested Junius had been present for his son’s birth, but if she told her parents he was on tour, they would worry needlessly that he had abandoned her. Junius would come to meet his son as soon as word reached him, Mary Ann knew, and she had misled her parents so often and so completely over the past eighteen months that one more half-truth mattered very little in the scheme of things.
Junius had not yet met his namesake when a reply to her letter arrived at the end of January.
January 8, 1822
7 Mount Street, Lambeth, England
My Dearest Daughter,
I fall on my knees and thank God for your letter. My precious child is alive! Perhaps guilt and shame for the manner of your leave-taking and the reasons behind it prevented you from writing sooner, but I am grateful that you did at long last. I pray you will not fall silent again.
It grieves me to tell you that your poor father never read your apology. A few weeks after you left us, he died—of a broken heart, the doctor says. You need not fear that he went to his eternal rest without forgiving you. He was ever a compassionate man, the best of Husbands, the most devoted of Fathers. He is with the Lord now, and I know he looks down upon you from Heaven with love and deep concern.
O my Darling Child, please take your son in your arms, flee your seducer, and come home. Do not let shame keep you away. We will leave Lambeth and live with your aunt in Whitechapel. You have a child to think of now. Do not let lust cloud your reason. How can you hope to build your future happiness upon sin and Mrs. Booth’s misery?
I list below the address of my cousin in Boston. Go to him. He and his wife will take you in and pay your passage home. Please write soon to tell me you are on your way.
Until I see you again I will remain
Your Frantic and Heartbroken
Mother
With shaking hands, Mary Ann carefully folded the letter and buried it at the bottom of her trunk. She could not bear to throw it away in case it was the last her mother sent. She would never have another from her father.
She curled up on the bed and wrapped her arms around herself, wishing Junius held her instead, muffling her sobs so she would not wake the baby.
• • •
Mary Ann’s adoration of her newborn son and Junius’s affectionate letters brought her much comfort until, at long last, Junius returned to Charleston. He wept with joy when he held his namesake for the first time, kissed him and cuddled him and declared him the most perfect of children.
The child, fondly nicknamed June, would be well provided for, as Mary Ann assured her mother when she summoned up enough courage to reply to her letter, which she had kept secret from Junius. Partway through his first season upon the American stage, Junius was earning more than one hundred dollars a night whenever the theatre sold out, and they almost always did. His fortunes would continue to rise, he promised, but only if he kept the public interested and intrigued. Thus not three weeks after his return to Charleston, Junius set out again, appearing in Savannah, Augusta, Boston, Providence, and Washington City to great public acclaim and financial reward.
When the theatre season concluded at the end of spring, Junius returned to Charleston to collect his little family and announce his plans for their housekeeping. “I earned and saved enough to purchase a comfortable estate for you and me and our darling child,” he told her, beaming with pride. “One hundred and fifty sublime forested acres in Harford County, Maryland, about twenty-five miles northeast of Baltimore.”
Mary Ann liked Baltimore, but twenty-five miles sounded worrisomely distant. “Did you?”
“Well, I didn’t purchase it,” he acknowledged, misunderstanding her concern. “State law forbids me to own land in Maryland since I’m not an American citizen. Instead I gave the owner a down payment and arranged for a thousand-year lease.”
Fates and Traitors Page 6