“I’ll not be thanked. Go and make a fool of yourself. I suppose I can’t lock you in your room.” He held the wine up, examined it in the candlelight like it was a fine claret and then spoke to it rather than look at her. “You should get married. That’s what your mother wanted.”
“And whom do you suggest I marry, Father?”
He set down the glass and scowled at her. “I’m sure there are plenty of men foolish enough to take you on. You’re no beauty—not like your mother was—but your figure does well enough, and you’re easy to do with when you don’t get ridiculous notions into your head. Find someone rich.”
“Some of the actresses receive considerable compensation. I do not need to be married.”
“And you think you’ll be one of them? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.” Moodily, he swirled the wine in his glass and then took a long swig. He set the glass down but did not take his eyes off it.
“The theater has become a respectable place for women.” Grace realized she still longed for her father’s approval, never mind his forgiveness. She had not stopped being the child who years ago discovered that she mattered much less to him than did her mother.
“The theater will never be respectable.”
“I will make sure I’m not exposed to censure.”
“See as you’re not. I don’t want my name sullied.”
“My stage name is Green.”
Tobias squinted up at her. He was not wearing his wig. Unwashed strands of hair splayed across his skull—bleached out kelp on damp sand. For just a moment, his eyes flashed an agony so acute that Grace stepped back. And then it was gone, replaced by a sneer as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “How thoughtful of you. Miss Grace Green? Ridiculous. Now leave me. I have an engagement this evening.”
“I will write, Father, if you wish.”
“Do not trouble yourself.”
Chapter 7
To business that we love we rise betime,
And go to’t with delight.
Antony and Cleopatra (4.4.20–21)
Ned hadn’t expected to get much enjoyment out of touring the country with the company—and he was proven right. Carriages bumping across rough roads from one drafty inn to the next and provincial theaters in varying states of decrepitude made him long for the bustling Piazza and the solidly built Theatre Royal. To add to Ned’s troubles, Mr. Renfrew was a poor manager, who picked favorites and paid little attention to anyone else’s comfort but his own. Ned spent more time soothing the ravaged feelings of various members of the company than he did keeping track of props and costumes and sets.
The one bright spot in an otherwise grueling summer was seeing the growing friendship between Grace and Olympia. The two girls shared a room at the inns and went off to explore the towns when they had free time away from rehearsals and performances. He liked watching them laugh and chatter—one tall and gliding when she wasn’t bumping into things, the other a blur of energy.
“Ned! Where’s my dagger? I left it here on the props table, and now it’s gone.”
Ned kept his sigh to himself. Louisa Warren bustled into the tiny room that he’d commandeered at the theater in York to keep the props organized. He held out the wooden dagger.
“I took it to touch up the gold paint on the hilt,” he said. “You’ll not be needing it for another hour yet.”
Louisa Warren snatched the dagger from Ned. Most of the time, he steered clear of her. If she wasn’t fussing about a prop, she was demanding to know her cue or sidling up to him and asking him to tie a loose ribbon on her costume or pick off imaginary threads. He couldn’t deny that Louisa was a fine-looking girl for those who liked the loud sort—all blooming cheeks and big teeth and masses of piled-up hair that from the back made her look like she was wearing lumps of coal on her head.
“How do you like my gown, Ned?” Louisa twirled around to show off the red velvet gown she wore to play the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.
“It looks well enough.”
“Oh, Ned! You have no idea how to talk to a girl.”
He didn’t bother replying in the hope that she’d leave him in peace to get ready for the start of the evening performance.
“What a fuss last night with that fly,” Louisa said, her coal head nodding, teeth bared in a smile.
“It worked out fine in the end.”
“Yes, but such a crash! I thought the whole theater was caving in on top of us—scared me out of me wits.”
“You were far enough downstage. The fly didn’t get nowhere near you.”
Ned didn’t want to let on how mortified he’d been when a large fly painted with a castle scene crashed forward onto the stage. He prided himself on running a tight ship backstage, no matter how grim the theater. A few times that summer, they’d performed outdoors, and Ned had been obliged to use all his wits to figure out how to prop up the scenery. The night before, one of the lads charged with moving the fly had tripped, and the whole bleedin’ thing had crashed to the boards.
“I heard you come onstage, although I didn’t dare look around,” Louisa said.
“I didn’t have much choice, did I? I grabbed the end of the blasted thing and hoisted it up. The lad what tripped got back far enough to steady it, and then we wrestled it to where it was supposed to go.”
Louisa laid a hand on his arm and widened her smile. Her breasts spilled over the top of the low-cut gown like freshly laundered pillows just begging for a man to lay his head on. “You saved the day.”
Ned swallowed hard. “Aye, well, I didn’t much like being out onstage. Don’t know how you lot stand it. Bright as midday and hot as a bleedin’ inferno with all them candles.”
“I can’t speak for everyone else, but I relish the heat.”
“I’ll stick to backstage. I got to get going now. Curtain’s up in ten minutes.”
“I can wait for you,” Louisa said. She fluttered her lashes. He tried to take a step back, but she reached out and twined her fingers through his, lifting his hand with tantalizing slowness to her lips. “Later? I got a room to meself tonight.”
“No. I don’t think . . . I mean to say, I got work to do.”
“You have to sleep somewhere, Ned.” Louisa guided his hand to her chest, splayed his fingers across the creamy skin. “You don’t need to be alone all the time.”
“Oh!”
Ned stepped back so quickly that Louisa lost her balance and fell into his arms. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her to break her fall. Over her shoulder, he saw Olympia staring. For a few seconds, she held his gaze and then shrugged and turned away.
Ned tried to follow, but Louisa was like a dead weight in his arms. When finally he untangled his arms from hers, little Tommy—son of one of the older actresses—popped out of the wings and ran toward them.
“Ned, sir? Me mam needs you to come right away. The candle what she’s supposed to carry in the sleepwalking scene’s burned down so’s it won’t light, and she don’t know what to do.”
“I’m on it, Tom. Go tell your mam I’ll be there in a shake.”
Ned escaped with profound gratitude into the darkness of the wings.
* * *
Grace quickly adapted to the life of a traveling player. She cheerfully endured bumping along the rough roads in drafty coaches to arrive at a new town every few days. To be sure, some theaters were close to falling apart, and she didn’t much fancy the nights they performed in barns, but a fair number of the theaters were solid, well-built affairs that reproduced in miniature Covent Garden’s massive Theatre Royal, and she never once saw a rat. Her contribution to each night’s performance was confined to singing two songs immediately following the interval.
She learned how to wrap her whole self around the nerves that soared and dived like gulls fighting over scraps on the beach. In the minutes before she walked onstage, she’d be convinced that her legs would give way under her, but then she’d feel Ned’s hand on the small of her back, gently urg
ing her forward, and her courage would return. Audiences loved her—stamping and whistling their approval. Grace felt as if she was finally stepping into the enchanted life she’d only dared visit in the fantasies of a lonely child.
One morning in Gloucester, Grace opened the newspaper and smoothed her hand across the page. She had become accustomed to seeing her name in print, but not yet hardened to the thrill of reading praise of her performance.
“Careful, Grace,” said Olympia. “You’ll get ink smudges all over you.” Grace turned her hand palm upward. “Ah, well, too late. Read what they wrote about you this time.”
“Miss Grace Green is a Talent to be reckoned with,” Grace read. She looked up at Olympia. “Oh dear! I hope that’s good.”
“’Course it is. Go on.”
“Madame Catalani had best watch her Back when she returns to the London Stage. Miss Green is poised to step into her Italian shoes and show that a British Voice does not need to play second fiddle to any Foreigner.” Grace put down the paper. “Who is Madame Catalani?”
“Just the most famous singer in the world,” Olympia said, clapping her hands with delight. “Oh, Grace! It’s a great honor to be compared to her. You must let Mr. Kemble know when we get back to London.”
“I suppose you think you’re better than the rest of us.” Louisa snatched the newspaper out of Grace’s hands and threw it in the fire. “That so-called critic’s a fool. I’ve seen Madame Catalani perform, and she is magnificent.”
“Grace should be very proud of what she’s accomplished since coming on the tour,” Olympia said. “You’re just upset because he wasn’t so complimentary about your Juliet.”
“I never take any notice of critics. They’re a vile lot.”
“Then why should you care what they say about Grace?” Olympia laughed. “Come now, Louisa. We don’t want to be quarreling among ourselves. We’ve got enough to cope with tonight what with the barn of a theater we’re supposed to perform in. I don’t know how Mr. Renfrew thinks it’s fit for anything but livestock.”
“Is it so very bad?” Grace asked.
“Bad enough. Ned’s spent the afternoon sanding down the worst of the splinters on the stage and finding rugs to put over the holes. We’ll need to be careful where we step.”
“Grace doesn’t need to worry,” Louisa said. “All she’s got to do is stand at center stage and sing. The rest of us need to move around. Ned said that the platform rigged up for the balcony scene ain’t fit to climb. I’ll be risking my neck.”
“Why don’t you complain to Mr. Renfrew?” Olympia asked.
“And give him an excuse to replace me? Not on your life.”
“There’s no one to replace you, Louisa. You know that. What with Caroline gone off home to her mother and Grace with no experience with acting—and you know I never touch tragedy if I can help it—your position’s safe enough. And if you’re that worried about the balcony holding you, go tell Ned. You seem to be getting more than your fair share of his attention.”
Grace was surprised to hear sunny-natured Olympia sound so cross. She’d long suspected Ned’s feelings for Olympia but had not realized that Olympia might return them.
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” Louisa said. She stalked out of the room, and moments later they heard her calling for Ned.
“Ned’s always so eager to help,” Olympia said.
“Do you care for him?” Grace asked.
“Me? ’Course not. And as for Louisa, I wouldn’t worry about anything she has to say. She’s jealous.”
“Why?”
“You’re such an innocent! She’s worried you’ll take her parts, don’t you see?”
“But I’ve never acted before.”
“Yes, but you want to.”
“I shouldn’t think of it.”
“I don’t see why not. You got as much right as anyone to try.”
Grace blushed and rubbed at the ink on her hand.
* * *
Ned spent the afternoon working on the structure that held up the balcony platform. He had no confidence that the mechanism used to slide the platform out from the wings with Louisa perched on top would work. At least solving the problem of how to keep Louisa from falling headlong to the stage kept his mind busy and away from Olympia.
Three hours later, he couldn’t help sucking in his breath when Louisa stepped out onto the platform to deliver her first line.
“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
The platform creaked, and Ned heard an ominous splinter. It would be a miracle if Louisa made it to the end of the scene without tumbling six feet to the stage. But to Ned’s relief, the platform held, even when Mr. Renfrew scaled a rickety ladder and leaned his full weight against the balustrade. Ned had warned him not to, but Mr. Renfrew was never one to be told what he didn’t want to hear.
As soon as Louisa and Renfrew made it through the scene, Ned signaled a boy to lower the curtain. He wiped the sweat from his forehead while the crowd roared their approval. The balcony scene was always a crowd-pleaser, although Ned couldn’t see much in it.
Louisa clambered down from the platform and came to stand next to him, her chest heaving from the exertion. “Have you got the dagger?”
“Here.” He handed her the wooden dagger. “Mr. Renfrew’s changed the order of the program. Grace is to sing next, and then you’ll do the death scene.”
“What? He didn’t tell me that.”
“Mr. Renfrew does what he likes. Stand aside, if you don’t mind.” He looked around her into blackness. He didn’t dare have candles lit; the old building was as dry as kindling. “Grace? Are you there? Two minutes.”
“She’s likely off preening. Fancy anyone comparing her to Madame Catalani. It’s indecent, if you ask me.”
Ned wanted to say that he had no intention of asking her, but he kept his mouth shut and kept peering into the darkness. Where was Grace? If he didn’t get the curtain up soon, Mr. Renfrew would have his head. He’d exited to the other side of the stage after the balcony scene, but it wouldn’t take him long to make his way around the back to find and yell at Ned.
Ned sensed movement just ahead of him. “Grace?”
“I’m sorry, Ned! I didn’t know I’d been moved up.” Her elbow caught him in the ribs as she teetered forward in the dark, and then, before he could grab hold of her, she slammed her full weight into Louisa.
Louisa crumpled to the floor, her scream and the crack of a bone muffled by Grace’s body collapsing on top of her.
* * *
“The physician has set her arm, but it’s a bad business. She’ll not perform for many weeks, perhaps months,” said Mr. Renfrew. “Dry your tears, Miss Green. No one blames you.”
Grace nodded and sniffed. She felt like a fool. Mr. Renfrew was being kind, but surely he couldn’t keep her on after this. It wasn’t the first time her clumsiness had gotten her into trouble. One night a few weeks back, she’d tripped over a loose floorboard onstage and got so close to the candles that she almost set her gown on fire.
“When we get to Bath in two days, you will go on as Juliet. Can you be ready?”
“You want me to take Louisa’s place?”
“You’re all that’s left.”
“But I have not yet acted,” Grace said, her heart banging. She loved singing, loved it when people in the audience went quiet to listen to her, loved especially the way singing let her forget the life she’d left behind. But acting? That was something different altogether.
“Yes, but I believe you wish to act,” said Mr. Renfrew.
“How do you know?”
“Miss Green, Grace, it is my business to know what my actresses are thinking and feeling.” He reached for her hand. “You need not worry. I will be your Romeo.”
“I know the part,” she said.
“I expect you do. What young hopeful does not know Juliet?” He smiled. “I suggest we start this afternoon. Ned has commandeered a room behind the stables t
hat we may use to rehearse in. You can be ready?”
“Yes.” His palm felt like damp wool left to steam by the fire. She tried to extricate her hand, but he held on, not quite crushing her fingers. “See as you are.”
Just when she thought she’d gotten her nerves under control, she felt a surge of panic that threatened her breakfast.
* * *
Several hours later, coached by Olympia and feeling marginally surer of herself, Grace arrived in the stables to meet with Mr. Renfrew. She knew her lines in the three scenes she was to play—the ballroom scene where Romeo and Juliet meet, the balcony scene, and finally the death scene. How many times had her mother sat on the sofa, clapping her hands in delight, as Grace declaimed Juliet’s lines? Sometimes, her mother had even made suggestions about how to move and which words to emphasize. Grace was often surprised at the intensity with which her mother supplied direction, and wondered how she knew so much. Only once she asked her mother if she’d ever acted onstage. Her mother’s snapped denial was enough to make Grace never ask again.
Mr. Renfrew took her hands between his and held them with the same damp grip, just tightly enough that she could not easily get free. “We will start with the balcony scene, my dear,” he said. “Will that suit?”
“Yes, of course,” Grace stammered. “You will need to guide me.”
“I intend to.” He caught and held her gaze. She’d never had a man look at her like that and she wasn’t sure how it made her feel. Bathed in the afternoon light slanting through the window, Mr. Renfrew’s face did not appear quite so plain. He had an open countenance and had already shown himself to be passionate in his opinions, even if she didn’t always agree with them.
The words in her script danced and blurred. She took a deep breath.
The Muse of Fire Page 7