In David’s arms she was able to remember those other moments. And now she would call on them to show her fondness for this man who in many ways was closer to her than George had ever been. She moved her lips down to his hairy chest and slowly down his body. She gently kissed his thighs and then made love to him in the way which George had taught her.
David’s soft moaning ended in a sudden cry of ecstasy. She lifted herself up and pressed her long red hair against his chest again, kissing him over and over.
He lifted her up to the pillow and staring at her in wonder said, “You minx! And what did that do for you?”
“I manage well enough,” she said. “Do you doubt that I care for you, David?”
“No,” he said. “I doubt it no longer. But I also know I was right. That there was someone before me. Someone who taught you things you’d never have known otherwise. I want to hear about him! I demand it or I shall be forever jealous!”
She snuggled close to him. “All right,” she said. “I shall tell you about George.” And she did, explaining it was a first love entered into without thought and with much passion. She finished with, “I know now we had to part, if only so I could meet someone like you.”
David kissed her with tenderness. He said, “You have told me all and I shall never again be jealous of you. I feel for the first time you’re truly mine!”
And so on that cold New Year’s night in that bleak room they entered on a new phase of their relationship. She felt they were as close as most husbands and wives, perhaps closer than many, and they both agreed that when they had achieved their ambitions they would marry. They worked together with a new interest and understanding and it seemed that this simple life they were leading would satisfy them for a long time to come. But some unexpected happenings were awaiting them in the wings.
In February the company moved on to Parkington, which did not receive them as well as Rigby. They remained there only three weeks and were in Wenside for early March. David and Fanny were starred in all the performances now, and they spent most of their offstage time together. It was accepted by all in the company that the two talented young people were lovers.
Wenside was as hospitable to Barnaby Samuels and his company as Rigby had been. Also, the theatrical lodging house was larger and better kept. Fanny now had her own room, which offered her two premiums; she did not have to suffer the character woman’s snoring, and David could come to her bed for their love-making.
They were doing a new play, “The Wicked Countess,” when Barnaby Samuels came down with gout. While he could still direct the plays, his left foot was too painful for him to take part onstage. It became imperative that another character man be hired. He sent an urgent appeal to London and by the next train an elderly actor named Ernest Hansom came to join the company.
From the first rehearsal Fanny found herself liking the rather pompous, dignified actor. He had iron-gray hair and a stern, brick-red face which showed few lines though he was well along in middle-age. Before he arrived, Barnaby Samuels quietly warned the company that Ernest Hansom had been a leading West End actor who had come to bad times through bouts of drunkenness.
The actor-manager had explained, “He is one of those men who can remain sober for weeks and then vanish for the same period on a drunken debauch. Because of his failing, he is now forced to work in small companies such as this. I pray that you do not offer him drink and avoid accepting any invitations he may offer to have you drink with him.”
At the time David Cornish had grumbled, “That sounds like bad news to me. I’d say Barnaby is making a mistake hiring the fellow.”
“But if he is truly a fine West End actor we can benefit by his experience,” she suggested. “And he may remain sober with us.”
“From my experiences with drunken actors he’ll slip sooner or later,” David predicted.
But now that Ernest Hansom was lending his presence to their company even David Cornish was lost in admiration of his talent. The red-faced man was a much better actor than Barnaby Samuels and the company gained in strength from his acting.
When Fanny was first introduced to him the old actor had seemed rather startled. He had quickly covered his surprise but she had noted it and wondered about the reason. She did not mention this to David as she did not think it important.
Several weeks went by and they continued doing repertory in Wenside. The weather became pleasanter with the coming of spring, but Wenside was another factory town as gray and grim as Rigby. However, this meant little to the theatrical company since the audiences were enthusiastic and attendance was nearly at capacity in the old Opera House.
They were preparing a comedy, “The Caretaker’s Bride,” and Ernest Hansom and Fanny were not in the last half of the first act which was being rehearsed. So they sat together in the rear of the dark auditorium watching Barnaby direct David Cornish and the comedian in a long scene.
Ernest Hansom had been completely sober thus far and knowing his weakness, Fanny admired him for this. The company had been careful in the use of alcohol in his presence but this alone would not have stopped him from getting drunk if he wished.
As the rehearsal went on the old actor turned his stern face to her and said, “David Cornish has a lot of ability.”
“That praise is meaningful coming from you,” she said. “We all respect your talent.”
“Thank you,” the gray-haired man said with a bleak smile. “Though I fear I have not made the best of myself.”
“You are doing so well here.”
He gave a deep sigh. “This has been good for me. But only the London stage satisfies me now. That should be the goal of all actors wishing to prove themselves. It should be your goal.”
“I do want to play in London,” she said. “My father was an actor. I’m sure he must have played there. I have been told he had great ability.”
“What was his name? Perhaps I may have met him,” the old actor said.
She blushed and shook her head. “I cannot tell you his name.”
“Oh?”
“No,” she said. “You see he deserted my mother and me not long after I was born.”
“A cruel fellow,” the old actor said quietly.
“I have tried not to hold it against him,” Fanny said. “My mother never did. She taught me to revere his memory.”
“I would have expected her to have been bitter.”
“So would I,” Fanny said. “At least, I would have until I came into the theatre myself. Now I understand better why he left us. It was because the theatre meant so much to him. I wish to follow in his footsteps and give my life to the theatre.”
“Your talent warrants your wanting to do that,” Ernest Hansom said. “Yet you are treading dangerous ground. It is known by all the company that you and David Cornish are lovers.”
Again she blushed. “I do not deny that. I’m fond of David. I believe in him also.”
“Yet this liaison could end by wrecking both your careers.”
“I will not let it,” she said firmly.
He stared at her. “You almost convince me.”
“I mean it. I take every precaution,” she replied, without attempting to explain more.
“Drink has been my compelling passion,” Ernest Hansom said bitterly. “I can never be certain when it will drag me down again.”
She reached out a hand and touched his arm. “We are fond of you, indeed proud of you. I’m sure you will not let it happen!”
“Not willingly,” the character actor said. He stared at her a moment and said, “Do you recall that on our first meeting I stared at you for a long moment in a most unseemly way?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do remember. And I wondered about it.”
He nodded. Then he said, “It was because you looked so remarkably like someone I knew long ago.”
“Really?”
“Someone with your lovely face and coloring,” he went on, then paused. “May I ask, was your mother’s name Mary?
”
It was her turn to be shocked. She stared at him and in a small voice said, “Yes.”
“I was sure of it,” he murmured.
“How do you know this?”
“Because I am your father,” he said gently.
Seated beside him in the darkened theatre she studied Ernest Hansom in confusion. She thought she was going to faint. Her head reeled and she could not collect her thoughts sufficiently to make any sort of reply.
He reached over and placed a comforting arm around her. “Do not hate me! I have lived a long life of regret for deserting you and Mary! I tried to convince myself she had probably married someone else and you were being brought up well. I never dreamed that one day I would find you again!”
She took a deep breath. “You are certain you’re my father?”
“Yes,” he said. “I knew it when I saw you. I gave up the name of Hastings when I became involved in financial troubles. I left Bristol as Ernest Hansom and I have been Ernest Hansom ever since.”
Gradually she accepted what he was telling her as the truth, astonishing though it seemed. When the rehearsal ended they went to David Cornish and told him the news. The handsome young actor listened and placed his arm protectively around Fanny.
He said sternly, “You realize that in deserting Fanny as you did, you gave up all claim on her?”
Ernest Hansom looked hurt. “I wish to make amends as best I can.”
“You should not interfere in her life,” David said. It was obvious to Fanny that he was jealous of her new-found father.
She quickly told David, “Mr. Hansom—that is, Father is not the sort to do that. And it gives me great joy to know him to be such a talented and kindly man.”
David said, “He was not kindly when he deserted you and your mother.”
She pressed her fingers to David’s lips. “Enough,” she said. “That is all in the past.”
The young actor still glared at her father. “I am in love with your daughter,” he said. “I don’t care whether you approve or not!”
“Everything will be the same!” Fanny promised her jealous lover.
Ernest Hansom’s brick-red face was sad as he assured David, “I do not ask for rights which I forfeited long ago. It is enough to have found my daughter. I will allow her to make her own decisions as she has done up to now. I desire only success for Fanny and you.”
This promise on her father’s part appeared to placate David. But Fanny sensed there might be thorny problems ahead between this young man who loved her so much and her newly-found father. For the moment she put these concerns to the back of her mind in her joy at finding her parent.
When the news made the rounds of the company the emotionally inclined actors and actresses were stunned and touched. As old Hilda Asquith said, “It might be the sort of thing dear Mr. Dickens writes! The reunion of father and child! So unexpected! So satisfying!”
This was the way the entire company felt, all except David who kept a suspicious eye on Fanny and her father. His jealousy of her new-found parent was apparent in all but their love-making. Only during those passionate moments in bed did he seem to forget about Ernest Hansom.
In truth he had reason to worry about the old man’s influence on Fanny. For while he did not attempt to interfere with her affair with him, Ernest Hansom did work hard at instilling a heightened ambition and unrest in her.
Her career was a favorite subject with the character actor. As they sat together in the parlor of the theatrical lodging house one morning, he brought the subject up again.
“You must get away from all this,” he said.
Fanny said, “But Barnaby Samuels is a good manager and director! The company is friendly and I have learned all I know about acting from them.”
“The point is,” her father said, “you have learned enough. You must not remain in the provinces too long.”
“Why not remain here and learn more?” she asked.
“Because you will not learn more,” her father said. “You now need to take your talent and training to London. If you remain here too long you will be tagged a provincial actress and then you will never get a West End job.”
Her eyes widened. “Surely that must be true for David as well?”
“That young actor is not my concern, though I agree he ought also to leave the provinces for the city,” Ernest Hansom said urgently. “You must make the transfer while you are young and at the height of your attractiveness.”
“I do not like to leave Mr. Samuels,” she said.
“He will understand it is for your good,” her father said. “He plans to leave Wenside in a few weeks. And I have heard he may give up management because of his continued illness. If that is true we can both leave when the engagement here ends.”
She brightened. “You will help me gain a foothold in London?”
“I shall,” he said. “It will be one way of making up to you some small portion of what I owe. Sir Alan Tredale is a close friend of mine. He has his own theatre, The People’s, and he will give you an audition if I ask him.”
“Oh, Father!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. And then, she said, “What about David? Will you speak for him as well?”
“If he wishes me to,” Ernest Hansom said reluctantly. “I don’t know whether that young man will accept my help or not. He is mighty independent and I’m sure he doesn’t like me!”
Fanny managed a smile. “Nonsense! I’m sure he’ll value your help. And it isn’t so much that he doesn’t like you, as that he is jealous of you.”
“I know,” the old man sighed. “He doesn’t want to share you with anyone else. And I can’t say I blame him!”
“I’m so excited!” she exclaimed. “Think of us all going to London together! It will be a little different from my last experience there! Though most of the folk I met were good to me!”
“So you have said,” her father nodded. “That Silas Hodder sounds like an interesting character.”
“He was like a father to me,” she said, and then quickly amended this to, “I mean, he was as close to being a father as he could be.”
Ernest Hansom smiled. “I’m not jealous of him. Don’t think me as hot-tempered as David.”
“But you do like David, don’t you?” she worried.
“Yes,” her father said. “I consider him a fine young actor with a great future, if he doesn’t allow his stubbornness to spoil it. I think he might have been more considerate of you. But since you were lovers before I arrived on the scene I can say nothing. Granted, if he does the right things, he should make you a good husband one day.”
“I feel the same way,” she said seriously. “But he is so impatient. He keeps asking me to marry him and I keep putting him off. It is not an easy situation.”
“I expect not,” her father agreed.
“But we won’t think of that,” she said happily. “We will think about conquering London! And meeting Mr. Gilbert Tingley again at his Emporium of Wonders! And Moll, who is the mermaid now in my place! It will be so much fun! You’ll meet them all and they’ll like you!”
“And you will find a place on the London stage,” her father said. “Maybe one day Fanny Hastings will be a star. I could ask for no more.”
“I will do what you tell me, Father, and work hard. I promise.”
“I will also try to do better,” he said. “I have not had one drink since I came here. My happiness in finding you has been partly responsible for that.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I know you will not succumb to drink again.”
“I hope not,” he said, though his tone lacked certainty. And she realized that this threat and this thirst must be with him all the time, a dreadful strain.
“Should I speak to David about the company closing?” she asked her father.
“No,” Ernest Hansom said. “I would prefer you didn’t, since Barnaby Samuels told me this in confidence. It might hurt the company’s morale if the news got out.”
“True.”
“Also,” he said, “I think it might be better not to say anything about our planning to go to London until the very end. If we do not speak of it until then, David will not have time to oppose the plan and brood about it. By offering it as a surprise I think he might be more willing to join in with us.”
“Very well,” she promised. “I shall not say anything to him until later.”
So it was agreed between them. In the weeks following Fanny glowed with an inward happiness from the knowledge of what was being planned. David noticed her excitement and was mystified by it.
One evening on the way home, he said, “You know there are rumors Barnaby is going to close the company. Yet you seem so happy!”
“I don’t think his closing the company will be such a disaster,” she said. “We are bound to find work.”
David gave her a grim look. “I’m not so sure. I haven’t a London reputation like your father!”
“You have talent and youth,” she said, squeezing her lover’s arm. “Father would trade his reputation for those things.”
It was a week later and they were doing a revival of “The Squire of Finby” when the skies quite unexpectedly darkened for Fanny. It began when shortly before curtain time a distraught Barnaby Samuels came to the dressing room she shared with old Hilda Asquith to ask, “Have you seen your father?”
She rose from her chair by the dressing room mirror, a small fear gathering about her heart. “No,” she said. “What is wrong?”
“He’s not in his dressing room,” the actor-manager said. “And I can’t find him anywhere in the theatre!”
Panic seized her. “The play begins in ten minutes!”
Barnaby nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid …” He didn’t finish what he was about to say.
“What will you do?” she asked unhappily.
“He’s probably drunk in some tavern,” the actor-manager said. “I know his part and my foot isn’t aching too badly. I’ll stand in for him!” And he hurried away.
Fanny slowly turned to the elderly Hilda Asquith who was finishing her make-up. She said, “What do you think?”
Vintage Love Page 131