“You know it was an accident,” she said. “The mare bolted. I did everything I could to control her.”
“Yes, yes.” He nodded toward the sputtering fire. “Call Betsy to clean up the mess and tell her to build up the fire. It’s getting cold in here.”
“I miss her too,” she said.
“Get out,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough damage.”
“Father . . .”
“Go.”
She stood a moment longer and then turned and left the room.
* * *
Alec brandished a letter. “I told you we’d find something.”
“What?” Ned asked.
“It must have slipped under the bed.” Alec gave the letter to Ned. “Go on and read it. You know I ain’t able to.”
Ned took the single sheet of paper and held it to the light of the candle. The writing was all loops and flourishes—a lady’s hand.
“What’s in it?”
“Give me a minute.”
“Read it aloud. It’s bound to tell you somethin’ about where she’s gone.”
Ned felt somehow dirty reading Grace’s private letter, but there was nothing for it. He had to find her or risk losing his position at the theater.
“All right.” He cleared his throat and began to read—slowly and with plenty of pauses to decipher the words. At the theater, he mostly read printed playbills and prompt books annotated with Mr. Kemble’s spiky handwriting.
“My dear Grace. I trust this finds you well. I have heard from mutual acquaintances that you have arrived in London. To my dismay, I was obliged to employ subterfuge . . .”
Ned looked up. “What the hell kind of word is that?”
“Don’t ask me.” Alec nodded at the letter. “Go on.”
Ned sighed and began reading again.
“ . . . to employ subterfuge—whatever that word means—to discover your address since your esteemed father did not see fit to supply it. I am at least glad that you are finally in the city. My sister always wanted to live in London, but your father never saw fit to indulge her and now it is too late. I hope you will find the time to visit me in Grosvenor Square. Mr. Knowlton has left me a house tolerably fitted up although nothing like I was accustomed to in Jamaica. Percival asked after you recently and will be happy to see you. I myself am well enough, all things considered. My sister’s death affected me most cruelly. She and I were such friends in our youth, and I mourn our . . .”
Ned stopped again.
“What?”
“Hold on a mo.” He mouthed the syllables and then cleared his throat and continued.
“. . . estrangement these past several years, although the cause of it is unjustified. But we must put such things behind us. I await your reply.”
“Blimey,” Alec exclaimed. “I ain’t understood one word in ten. What’s she on about?”
“She sounds like a right old bat.”
“Who do you think she is?”
“It’s signed Augusta Knowlton. I’m guessing she’s Grace’s aunt.”
“Is there an address?”
“Naw. The envelope’s gone. But leastways we got something. An Augusta Knowlton in Grosvenor Square. Let’s go see what we can find.”
“I ain’t going,” Alec said. “Far as I can see, this Grace girl is just going to get you into trouble. If you want my advice, tell old Kemble that she’s gone and then forget about her. He might rage a bit, but he won’t let you go. You’ve made yourself too useful backstage. Besides, Mr. K. knows as well as any of us that London’s full of stage-struck girls. And plenty of them can sing.”
Ned folded the letter and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, then led the way out of the room. “We best get back to the theater. We got Hamlet tonight, and I need to make sure the props are in place. Last time we lost the skull.”
“You’re not going to go lookin’ for this Knowlton woman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Chapter 6
If this were play’d upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an
improbable fiction.
Twelfth Night (3.4.116–17)
Grace left the house in Russell Square the next day while her father was still sleeping off his brandy from the night before. He’d gone out shortly after breakfast and returned in the small hours of the morning, his thumping and blustering waking her. She’d huddled under the bedclothes, eyes wide in the darkness, and counted the minutes until morning.
The day was fine, and Grace walked rapidly in the direction of Covent Garden. To her relief, no one paid her any attention. London was too full of people for anyone to care about a young woman alone. She reached the theater and lingered under the portico enclosed with Doric columns that fronted the principal public entrance on Bow Street. The bells at Saint Paul’s tolled twelve times. She tried the door, knowing it had to be locked at this time of day, and was surprised when it opened easily. She slipped inside. The filtered light from high windows revealed a large and spacious saloon. Small stoves used to keep the space warm in the winter months lined the outer wall. A double staircase led to the upper circles. A door in front of her was open, revealing a shadowed view of seats in the lower circle just beyond. At night, hundreds of people—up to three thousand if one of the principals like Mrs. Siddons or Mr. Kemble was performing—crowded through the Bow Street and other entrances and with fans fluttering, milled around this saloon, mounted this staircase, and made their way to seats in the circles and benches in the pit. Grace sank onto one of the padded benches in the saloon, unsure now what she should do. The theater during the day felt somehow ominous—cold and uncaring in its emptiness. A coil of fear erupted at the base of her stomach.
A career in the theater? For her? Her mother would be horrified. Charlotte Johnson had never talked about any other future for Grace beyond making a good marriage that would take her away from her father’s house.
Grace left the saloon and returned to Bow Street. She walked quickly toward the stage door. She’d just poke her head in and say goodbye to Mr. Harrison, maybe ask to see Ned one last time.
“Grace!”
Grace turned to see Olympia running toward her. As soon as she reached her, she threw her arms around Grace. “You’ve come back! Ned’s been in a right state since Mr. Kemble told him to find you.”
“Mr. Kemble wants to see me?”
“Mr. Kemble’s always on the lookout for a new star, and maybe you’re the one. A voice like yours is no common thing.” Olympia linked her arm through Grace’s. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“But . . .”
“What’s wrong? You’re that pale. Come on inside. I can brew us a cup of Mr. Harrison’s tea. The man lives on tea, when he’s not living on gin.” Olympia giggled.
“I don’t know, Olympia. My father . . .”
“That man in the Piazza.”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“He was far too old to be your husband, and he appeared too respectable for a cock-bawd.”
Grace stopped walking so suddenly that Olympia was pulled backward.
“Did you really think I was . . . ?” Grace could not even say the word.
Olympia laughed at the horrified expression on Grace’s face. “Don’t look so affronted, Grace. The theater can be a rough place, and I didn’t believe Ned’s story about you being his cousin for a second. I heard him talkin’ with Alec about finding you in the streets. But you won’t find people here care much about where you come from, so long as you get your lines right. You’ve got to be tough if you want to join us.”
“Join you?”
“It’s why you came back, isn’t it? To join the company? And you should, if Mr. Kemble will have you. And from what Ned’s said, he’s already well disposed. The season’s ending in a few weeks, but maybe you could join our summer troupe and then come back with us for the fall season. What with Agnes out sick and not likely to return, we need you to join us. Well, almost all of us, and
you’ve got to learn not to mind Louisa.”
“What are you talking about, Olympia? What is a summer troupe?” Grace wanted to press her hands down on Olympia’s narrow shoulders to keep her still. A new future that she hardly dared to imagine glimmered just out of reach. She wasn’t sure if she was terrified or hopeful.
“What it sounds like. We’re actors and actresses who go around the country in the summer. The provincial theaters are pleased to have us. You could do a song or two to start, and then, as you got your confidence up, try your hand at acting a few scenes. We don’t generally put on full plays in the summer. People enjoy a bit of variety—some singing, a bit of dancing if the stage is fit—and it isn’t always—and a few of the famous soliloquies and the best bits from the plays that everyone knows.” Olympia took Grace’s hand. “Let’s go in and talk with Mr. Renfrew. He’s been put in charge of us what with Mr. Kemble and his sister going off to Ireland for the summer.”
“What? No, Olympia! I can’t go with you.” Grace dug her heels in and pulled back, but Olympia just tugged harder.
“We’re a jolly lot, and what’s to stop you?”
“Well, ah, my father . . .”
“Excuse me, Grace, but he does not own you.”
“Olympia!”
“Well, it’s true. Mr. Renfrew should be in the script room. There’s no harm in asking and no guarantee he’ll say yes, anyway.” Olympia opened the stage door and stood aside to let Grace pass, then let the door bang shut behind her. Grace blinked in the dim light. The room was empty but still smelled of old man and burning coals.
“Where is Mr. Harrison?”
“Sleeping it off somewhere, I should imagine. He never comes in before four. Now, take off your bonnet so that Mr. Renfrew can see your face, and stand up straight. Your height’s an advantage in this business. Don’t look as if you’ll get the vapors at the sight of your own shadow.”
Grace removed her bonnet and laid it on Mr. Harrison’s chair. The notion that she could join the company was absurd at best—and dangerous at worst. But she could not turn away. What harm would it do to see this Mr. Renfrew and find out if he’d even consider her? There was no use tying herself in knots before she knew the score. That’s what Mrs. Gale used to say—their housekeeper back in Clevedon. Her practical good sense and sympathy had often saved Grace when one of her mother’s frequent bouts of melancholy put her beyond Grace’s reach.
Grace followed Olympia down a long corridor to a small room carved like an afterthought into a corner behind the stage. Shelves overflowed with stacks of tattered scripts, most with the pages scrawled upon and dog-eared. She smelled musty costumes and stale perfume and gin.
“This is Mr. Renfrew,” Olympia said, gesturing to a stocky young man who was reading a script. He glanced up and inclined his head in Grace’s direction.
“Good afternoon.”
“You remember Miss . . .” Olympia stopped and turned to Grace. “Dear me, I just realized that I never learned your surname.”
“Ah, Green. My surname is Green.”
Grace Green? She sounded like the gardener’s wife. Even if Mr. Renfrew believed her, Olympia had to realize that she was lying. But to Grace’s relief, neither of them even blinked.
“Charmed, Miss Green,” said Mr. Renfrew. “I am delighted to see you back with us. Mr. Kemble was very taken with your voice and quite put out when you disappeared.”
“Miss Green wants to join us this summer,” Olympia said. “With Agnes poorly, we’ll have need of her.”
“Perhaps.” Mr. Renfrew looked Grace up and down like she was livestock at a county fair. “We know already that you can sing, but have you any acting experience, Miss Green?”
“No, sir, but in addition to encouraging me to sing, my mother often had me recite scenes from the great plays.”
“Do you have any notion of the hardships of a summer spent traveling from town to town? Miss Adams has likely not told you about the inferior accommodations, the drafty playhouses, some no better than barns leaking in the rain, and the often-impertinent audiences. You don’t appear to me as if you could last a week.”
Mr. Renfrew reminded Grace of a work-hardened sheepdog—the small, short-haired kind with a pointed nose and darting eyes. But instead of the usual black-and-white coloring of a sheepdog, he had bushy red hair and pink skin like a fresh-washed piglet.
He was not a handsome man, but he had a self-assured air about him that set him apart from the few young men of Grace’s acquaintance.
“I am not accustomed to luxuries,” she said stiffly.
“And you’ll find none on a summer tour. You are sure you have the stomach for it? You’re not going to squeal at the first sight of a rat in your lodgings?”
“I was brought up in the country and am familiar with the creatures. While I would not relish seeing them in the place where I sleep, I may be counted upon to take a broom to one without fainting.” She refused to let this sheepdog man get the better of her.
“You are set on joining us?”
“Yes, sir.” She kept her chin up and her eyes fixed on Mr. Renfrew. If she was to be an actress, she had better learn how to manage her emotions.
“The pay is dependent on the size of the audiences.”
“Pay?”
“You don’t think we do this purely out of our love for the drama, do you, Miss Green? We are working players, and the stage is our livelihood. We are not a haven for misplaced ladies and gentlemen.” He started to turn away.
“No! Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to sound naive. I accept whatever terms are offered.”
He turned back, red whiskers quivering, eyes narrowed. Grace half expected him to run around her and Olympia to herd them into a corner. “Good. We leave for Margate in two weeks and will be gone until the middle of August. Can you be ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Excitement battled jolts of panic. What was she thinking? Her father would never allow her to travel around the country with a troupe of actors.
He’d sooner see her dead.
* * *
“Ned!” Thomas Renfrew emerged from the men’s dressing room and caught Ned by the arm. The last performance of the season had ended ten minutes earlier, and the theater still buzzed with the chattering of the company backstage and the muted rumble of the audience moving out of the theater into the night.
“Sir?” Ned tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. His dislike for Mr. Renfrew increased daily. The actor’s drinking before performances either made him belligerent or sick—and neither option made Ned’s job any easier. Even worse was how he prowled around Olympia, who, to Ned’s dismay, had so far done nothing to discourage him. He didn’t think Olympia had succumbed to Renfrew’s dubious charms, but she did not appear immune to them.
“What are your plans for the summer season?” Mr. Renfrew asked.
“I’ll stay here as always. There’s plenty to do organizing props and scenery backstage to get ready for the fall.”
“You know that Mr. Kemble has put me in charge of the summer troupe.”
“I heard as much.”
“Yes, well, I don’t believe his trust will be misplaced.” Renfrew cocked his head to one side and smirked. “Mr. Kemble agrees that you will be better employed coming with us.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“On tour, man. We need you to help backstage and to be a strong man when necessary. You’re a fine, tall fellow capable of keeping unruly audiences in line. What say you?”
“I ain’t never been out of London, sir. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not go. As I said, I got plenty to keep me busy here.”
“That’s as may be, but Mr. Kemble has given his blessing. You must come.”
“I ain’t got a choice in the matter?”
“I didn’t say that, now did I? But I thought that you’d be wanting to come, seein’ as that new girl—Grace Green? She’s coming too.”
“Grace? She’s come back?�
� Ned couldn’t hide a broad smile. It was a good job that he hadn’t gotten himself into trouble going to see that aunt of hers.
“You and Miss Green—there is, I trust, nothing untoward going on?”
“What? Oh, no. ’Course not, Mr. Renfrew. Miss Green’s a friend.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Sir?”
“I would not wish to get in your way, although I confess it unlikely Miss Green would be attached to a man such as yourself.” Mr. Renfrew smiled. “No offense intended.” He pursed fleshy lips. “Miss Green intrigues me.”
Ned swallowed the desire to smash his fist into Mr. Renfrew’s smirking red face. “Miss Green is not your common sort.”
“Which is why she intrigues me. I’m bored with our current crop of girls. Little Olympia has a bit more to recommend her than the others, but even she pales next to Miss Green. There’s a quality about her that I’d like to investigate further, if you get my drift. I’ve already cleared her engagement with Mr. Kemble. He’s charged me with watching her progress over the summer and letting him know if he should consider her for the fall season. Mr. Kemble trusts my judgment. Well, I’m sorry you don’t wish to join us this summer. I’ll ask Alec. He’s good with his fists, and I don’t know if we’d be better off with him. Good day to you, Ned.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ned said quickly.
“Excellent. I shall tell Mr. Kemble.”
Ned watched Mr. Renfrew scurry off, as much like a red-furred rat as any man had a right to be. Although relieved to hear Renfrew’s waning interest in Olympia, the image of him sniffing around Grace almost propelled him to the pot he’d put in the wings to catch Mr. Renfrew’s vomit.
* * *
“Go if you must. I’ll not stop you.” Tobias wrapped stubby fingers around a large glass of wine. Drops splattered the already-dirty tablecloth and speckled his cravat like bloody pinpricks.
“Thank you, Father.” Grace stayed out of arm’s reach and kept her voice cool—water to his fire. She would not show her surprise at his sudden change of heart. She’d accept it and worry later about what she’d do come fall when the company returned to London. Maybe by then she’d have made herself so indispensable that Mr. Kemble would take her on, and she could be free of her father forever. The prospect was bewitching.
The Muse of Fire Page 6