The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

  “My mother has been dead for close to a year.”

  “I can only plead the demands of business and society.” He sighed theatrically and placed one long-fingered hand against his chest.

  “My aunt is in good health?”

  “Ah, dearest Mama manages as well as can be expected. The news of her poor sister’s death distressed her terribly.”

  “Aunt Augusta and my mother were hardly the best of friends.”

  “My dear Cousin, you are too harsh. My mother doted on her sister. When the news came of your mother’s untimely passing, dear Mama took to her bed for days. I feared for her health.” Percival closed his eyes as if to hide the excess of emotion brought on by worry for Augusta Knowlton.

  “My aunt appears to have recovered, Cousin. The writing in the note she sent to me when I was in London showed no signs of feebleness.”

  “Well, yes,” Percival opened his eyes. “I am glad to report that my mother appeared remarkably robust when I saw her last.”

  “And that was?”

  “About a fortnight ago. She so looks forward to my visits.”

  “She is a lucky woman.”

  “Quite.”

  For a few seconds, they sat in silence, pleasantries exhausted. Grace knew she had to speak first or risk surrendering the upper hand. She suspected that Percival would be only too happy to seize it.

  “I—”

  “You—”

  The words clashed in midair. Percival held up one hand and rotated his wrist with conscious delicacy. Grace caught a whiff of expensive soap.

  “What do you want, Percival?” she asked.

  “Even as a child, you were always charmingly direct,” he said, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. Every inch of Percival screamed privilege. His mother had married a man of rank and wealth. “Do you remember the time you threw a soup spoon at me when you were six?”

  “It is one of my most cherished memories.” Grace met his gaze squarely. “You have sought me out for a reason, Percival, and I’m quite sure that it has nothing to do with extending condolences for my mother’s death or reminiscing about a childhood we never shared.”

  “I have always admired you.”

  “I doubt that.” She wanted to be gone from the noisy tearoom full of gossiping women and ancient men waiting to dip their gouty legs in the baths.

  “A month ago, your father came to me.”

  Grace’s attention snapped back to Percival. “What are you talking about? My father has never had anything to do with my mother’s family.”

  “People change, Grace.” Percival smirked. “I anticipate that the news I must impart will be unwelcome, and I regret it, but there is no remedy for it.”

  “Please, Percival, get to the point. I have a great many things to do today.”

  “You are performing again tonight?”

  “Just tell me,” she said wearily.

  Percival took a sip of tea and then carefully set his cup onto a saucer painted with a pink butterfly fluttering above a cluster of small purple flowers. An elegant, two-tiered cake plate rested on the table between them. The sight of the tiny cakes and sandwiches turned Grace’s stomach. She’d told Percival that she was not hungry, but he’d ignored her and ordered the food anyway.

  “As I said, your father and I met. He wished to consult with me about the disposal of his estate.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because, dear Grace, he has decided to make me his sole heir.”

  Grace sprang to her feet, knocking the small table and toppling the overloaded cake plate. Crustless sandwiches, iced cakes, and other delicacies tumbled to the black-and-white-tiled floor. Several scones rolled as far as the elegantly slippered feet of two ladies seated nearby.

  Chapter 9

  What’s gone and what’s past help

  Should be past grief.

  The Winter’s Tale (3.3.219-220)

  Grace hated the pity on her friend’s face. It pushed and prodded at her heart like a hot knife through butter.

  “That’s so unfair! Why would your father be so cruel?” Olympia took Grace’s hand and led her to a bench placed alongside the Gravel Walk leading away from the Royal Crescent. Grace had never been to this part of Bath with its uniform houses sweeping in elegant arcs and circles. She’d run headlong into Olympia after leaving the tearoom. They’d walked quickly up the hill from the Theatre Royal, Grace not knowing or caring where they went, trusting Olympia to keep her close.

  “My father was very angry at me for joining the company,” Grace said as they sat on the bench. “He doesn’t want me in the theater.”

  “But to cut you out of his will!”

  Grace despised people who felt sorry for themselves, but at this moment, she could not help the desolation that filled her heart in the wake of Percival’s announcement. He had been surprisingly compassionate of her feelings, but that did not take away from the precariousness of her position. She took a deep breath and pushed back tears. She must not give in. “I agree it is a harsh thing for my father to have done, but he is right about me not belonging in the theater.” She inhaled another ragged breath and caught a whiff of orange-scented cologne from a pair of passing dandies. She wondered if they were the same men who had waved at Mr. Renfrew during her performance as Juliet the night before. Unlikely. In Bath, every other young gentleman squeezed his legs into leather breeches and wore a blue coat with brass buttons. Most of them also wore white cravats so stiff and high that they could not look down to see their boot tops. Remembering the dandies brought Percival to mind. His dress had not been quite as extravagant as the two young men walking past, but he would not be out of place in any collection of fashionable men.

  “For goodness’ sake! It was just the one performance. You’ll improve. The first time I got onstage with a speaking part, I forgot half my lines.”

  “Mr. Renfrew thinks I am not suited to the theater. Tomorrow, when the company goes on to London, I will return to my father’s house in Clevedon.”

  “You can’t give up so easily! And what about me? I will miss you! And Ned too. You can’t go!”

  “I’m sorry, Olympia, but it’s impossible for me to stay.” Grace smiled sadly. She’d never had a friend like Olympia—so loyal and funny, so full of warmth and kindness. In fact, she’d never had an intimate friend of any kind. The young ladies in her neighborhood in Clevedon had envied Grace’s singing voice but had no use for her company. She was too tall and too serious, and most of all, she was the daughter of Tobias Johnson, who everyone knew had radical opinions about everything from impressment to the slave trade. And after the accident that took her mother’s life, no one wanted anything more to do with the family.

  “You must at least stay to watch Mrs. Siddons tonight,” Olympia said, taking Grace’s hand. “I’ll never forgive myself if you go away without seeing her.”

  “She’s performing?”

  “Yes! You’ve been so preoccupied that you must have forgotten. She’s stopping in Bath on her way back to London from Ireland. Her brother has gone ahead, but Mrs. Siddons spent a great deal of time here when she was younger and has decided to favor the Bath Theatre Royal with her presence. Oh, Grace! Tonight, she’s playing Lady Macbeth. You can’t miss the sleepwalking scene. Stay and watch with me backstage. I’m on just the once as the servant girl.”

  “What about Mr. Renfrew?” Grace knew she was foolish to even consider staying. Why torment herself? She resolved to return to her father’s house without delay and confront him about the will. He could not be allowed to leave her penniless. But Mrs. Siddons! Grace might never get another chance to see the great actress perform. Although past fifty and almost at the end of her career, “The Siddons,” as she was known, was larger than life—the epitome of the sublime, celebrated throughout Britain as The Tragic Muse. Some said that Mrs. Sarah Siddons was the finest actress of this age or any age.

  “Mr. Renfrew can go hang,” Olympia said. “He can hardly throw yo
u out into the streets. He’d have to get Ned to do it, and you know he wouldn’t.”

  “I will miss Ned. It’s thanks to him that I got onstage in the first place.”

  “Yes, we all depend upon Ned.” Olympia jumped up and seized Grace’s hand. “Come on. We have time to get back to the inn and pack your trunk and then have a bite of supper before the performance.”

  Olympia’s cheerful humor—even if a trifle forced—encircled Grace like a gust of sparkling air bringing with it abandoned hopes. She let her friend pull her along the pathway that led into Back Lane and then made a sharp right onto Barton Street and the way back down the hill to the theater. There would be plenty of time for misery and recriminations in the days ahead. If she did not see Mrs. Siddons now, she might never get another chance.

  * * *

  A plump, middle-aged woman with a striking profile bustled along the corridor leading from the outside door to the dressing room allocated for her use. Grace’s first impression was that Mrs. Siddons appeared to be a respectable lady who wouldn’t be out of place presiding over a whist table. She reminded Grace of her own mother—taller than average and with the same strong features Grace saw in her own mirror every morning.

  “Should I introduce myself?” Grace whispered.

  Olympia shook her head. “I wouldn’t risk it until after the performance. Mrs. Siddons may appear affable, but I’ve heard that she’s very reserved and particularly objects to anyone distracting her from her preparations.”

  Grace followed Olympia to a vantage point backstage from where they commanded an excellent view of the stage. A buzz of voices filled the pit; the theater would soon be full. No one wanted to miss Mrs. Siddons’s performance as Lady Macbeth. Mr. Renfrew paced nearby. He was to play Macbeth—a role he’d performed many times but never opposite such a formidable partner. His ashen face and jerky movements betrayed his nervousness. Grace was not above feeling some satisfaction.

  Even from Grace’s position offstage, the heat from the candles penetrated her bones. The mingled smells of smoke and face powder, sawdust, and excited bodies mocked a future stinking of salt air and damp earth.

  “Look!” Olympia clutched Grace’s arm. “She’s making her entrance.”

  Mr. Renfrew was no match for the commanding presence of Mrs. Siddons as she swept onstage for their first scene together. Mrs. Siddons delivered her lines with a riveting force that silenced the packed theater. Grace moved away from Olympia and wrapped her arms around herself. Perhaps by holding fast to her own body, her feet would stay on the ground. When Mrs. Siddons turned her head toward Mr. Renfrew, the burning of her eyes pierced Grace’s soul.

  “Screw your courage to the sticking place and we’ll not fail.”

  An hour later in the sleepwalking scene, those eyes glowered with such unseeing ferocity that Grace needed to lean against Olympia for support.

  “Here’s the smell of the blood still.

  All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”

  Grace bit her tongue to prevent herself from crying out when Mrs. Siddons stopped rubbing her hands and faced the audience.

  “O, O, O!”

  The wail filled every corner of the auditorium, caught hold of every heart, the awed silence so profound that Grace was sure she heard the squawking of gulls cresting the winds high above the theater.

  “Well?” Olympia asked when the play was over and Mrs. Siddons had retired, flushed and triumphant, to her dressing room. “Was she not wonderful?”

  “Wonderful does not even begin to describe her! Thank you for making me stay.”

  “You’re sure we can’t find a way for you to stay?”

  “A miracle?”

  Olympia laughed and patted Grace’s arm. “At least you still have your sense of humor. I refuse to believe that you’ll bury yourself forever in that Clevedon place.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed Grace’s cheek. “Depend upon it, Grace. You will be performing again within the year.”

  Grace did not reply. She could not.

  * * *

  Ned watched Olympia and Grace standing in the wings during the sleepwalking scene. Grace was leaning against Olympia for support. For just about all the years he’d been a man, Ned had more or less sworn off women. The risk of doing to one of them what had been done to his own mother was too great.

  So how had his life become so complicated? He almost longed for the days before he’d come to the theater, when he’d kept himself to himself, only occasionally following Alec to the brothel for a random push. Ever since Olympia—and now Grace—had come into his life, Ned barely knew up from down.

  Ned wished he could grab Renfrew by the scruff of his scrawny neck and shake him like the dog he resembled. Where did he get off dismissing Grace like she was little better than a housemaid? Ned decided to speak with Mr. Kemble when the company returned to London. The chances of Kemble listening to him were remote—after all, Ned was just the backstage man, while Mr. Renfrew was a real actor—but he had to try.

  The two girls turned away from the stage and joined him in the wings. Out front, the audience exploded with applause as wild and unfettered as a fusillade of bullets raking distant battlefields.

  “Ned!” Grace exclaimed. “I’ve seen her at last.”

  “Aye, she’s a wonder and that’s for sure.” He smiled down at Grace. “Can I do anything for you? Help you with your trunk and all?”

  “Thank you, no, Ned. Olympia’s already found a boy at the inn to take the trunk to the coach yard. I leave early in the morning.”

  Ned stood awkwardly in front of the two girls. Olympia was holding tightly to Grace’s hand. “I’d best get her back to the inn,” she said.

  “Yes, ’course.” Ned stood aside to let them pass.

  Grace stopped in front of him. “You’ve been so terribly kind to me, Ned. I won’t forget you.”

  “Weren’t nothing, Grace. You take care of yourself now.”

  “I will try.” Impulsively, she kissed him on the cheek and then turned and hurried with Olympia down the dark corridor toward the stage door.

  “Ned! The rain effect’s buggered. We need you to come.”

  Sighing, Ned followed Tommy around the back of the stage to tend to the box full of pebbles that, when shaken, was meant to imitate the sound of rain on a roof. A jagged cut in the box had emptied out the pebbles. Ned ordered Tommy to look for them while he figured out a way to repair the hole.

  Maybe it was just as well that Grace was leaving before Renfrew got the better of her. She was too innocent for her own good. And as for Olympia, Ned resolved to stay away. It did no one any good to complicate life.

  * * *

  Dressed in black with her pale hair hidden by a wide-brimmed bonnet, Grace attracted no attention when she stepped down from the coach in Bristol at noon the next day. The yard teemed with activity and noise. Compared to refined Bath with its uniformly constructed modern houses, Bristol was a much rougher town—its docks and harbor crammed with ships. Most of them sailed into port packed with sugar from the West Indies and then journeyed south to Africa with holds overflowing with bolts of cloth and other manufactured goods to trade for slaves bound for the islands of the Caribbean. Grace’s father had often railed against the enormous profits reaped by those responsible for keeping the ships plying the Atlantic triangle afloat with human misery.

  One of the few times Grace remembered seeing her father smile with satisfaction was a year earlier—just a month before her mother’s death—when an Act of Parliament ended the trade of souls for sugar, but not the practice of slavery itself. Her father had been tireless in his efforts on behalf of the abolitionists—writing pamphlets and encouraging anyone who would listen to abstain from using sugar in order to protest slavery on the Caribbean plantations. Grace had grown up torn between resenting her father’s frequent absences and being happy to share the solitude with her mother.

  Rather than stay in the noisy yard to wait two hours for the coach ba
ck to her father’s house in Clevedon, Grace walked toward the docks to watch the bustle of boats and men. When she was a child, her father had spent a great deal of time in Bristol, talking with sea captains and sailors. He’d once staggered home with blood caked to his face and his right arm dislocated after being beaten for distributing his pamphlets critical of the slave trade.

  A block from the coach yard, a young woman ran into the street, her hair unpinned and cascading in tangled ropes down her back. The woman gaped at Grace, her eyes wide.

  “Gone!” she shrieked. “My Robert!” The woman gripped Grace’s arm, drew her close. “Do you hear? He’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry!” Grace stammered. “What’s happened? Is Robert your child?”

  “My husband. They’ve taken him.” The woman lurched away from Grace and stumbled a few steps down the street before turning back. “The sailors. They’re getting that bold. Mostly they take men from the tavern for their filthy navy, but my Robert was no tavern goer. They came into our house before dawn. Our house, ma’am! I screamed and tried to stop them, but they threw me to the floor so’s I hit my head.” Tears splashed down the woman’s cheeks. “Poor Robert! What am I to do?”

  “I’m sorry.” Grace’s heart bled for the woman—the despair in her eyes a reproach.

  “It ain’t your fault, ma’am,” she said. “It’s this damn war. Beggin’ your pardon, but the King’s Navy got no right takin’ respectable men.”

  Run-down houses lined both sides of the street. Grace suspected that the woman, and her children, if she had any, would be confined to the workhouse long before her husband returned home—if he returned. Grace had read about the naval battles in the Atlantic campaign. The Royal Navy had been victorious in restricting the movement of French ships between the West Indies and France, but at the cost of how many lives? Suddenly, Grace felt ashamed. She had a warm house to return to, and, however grudgingly, her father would not let her starve, at least so long as he remained alive. She did not need to fear press-gangs or cannon fire or workhouses or the degradations of poverty. Grace reached into her small purse and pulled out a handful of coins.