Ned drew himself up. “I’m come to inquire after Miss Adams,” he said as clearly as he could, acutely conscious of his rough accent.
“What’s someone like you got to do with Olympia?”
“I’m from the theater.”
“Ah, yes. The blasted theater. Damn good thing it’s been burned down, if you ask me. It’s high time Olympia got herself married.”
“Sir?”
“Not that it’s any business of yours, man. What do you want with her? Brung her wages, have you?” He chuckled. “Old Kemble’s in a helluva bind now, ain’t he? Serves him right—preening around that theater of his like he owned the place.”
“I believe Mr. Kemble is one of the owners,” Ned said stiffly. How did Olympia live with such a man?
“He’s just an actor when all’s said and done,” the general said. “Olympia’s not here right now. If you got something to give her, I’ll take it.” He held out one pudgy hand. The baby finger was missing. Ned wondered if it was ripped off by a stray musket ball, and was sorry the ball hadn’t been better aimed.
“Just tell her that Ned came to say hello,” he said, ignoring the general’s outstretched hand. “She’ll know who I am.”
The general stepped back into the vestibule of his rooms and slammed the door in Ned’s face.
* * *
Grace clung to Percival’s arm as he shouldered his way through the crowd into the lower lobby of the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket.
“We appear to have come too late,” Grace said. She tightened her grip on his arm. “I did not expect such crowds.”
“You underestimate my concern for your well-being, my dear. This morning, I sent a message to Mr. Madison, asking him to save us seats in his box.”
“The Madisons are here?”
“You’ll be obliged to put up with their society again, although I trust you’ll find the sacrifice worthwhile.” Percival steered Grace up a flight to stairs to the second level, where the quality of the people filling the lobby was several cuts above those on the ground level. Percival swept open a curtain and stood aside to let her pass into a box. “After you, my dear.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Grace whispered as she passed in front of him. “We are not engaged.”
“Not yet.”
She ignored him and nodded to Mr. Madison, who struggled to his feet and held out his hand to guide her to a seat at the front. “Miss Johnson,” he said. “A pleasure.” Next to him, his wife looked past Grace to Percival. She fluttered her eyelashes and her fan in equal measure. Grace expected Percival to take the hint, but to her surprise, he settled into the chair next to hers.
“Since this is your first visit to this theater, Grace, you will not be aware of the alterations made this past week.”
“Oh?”
“The inside of this theater is usually resplendent with crimson curtains, but as you can see, they have all been removed.” Percival gestured to the party of people seated in the adjacent box. “The partitions between boxes have also been taken out, which I must say is an improvement. We are now able to more easily see the stage.”
“Is this theater always so crowded?” Grace asked.
“Not quite. This is a special night.” He waved to acknowledge the arrival of a fashionably dressed couple. Grace recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Jackson. The wife was yet another one of Percival’s admirers. Grace acknowledged them with a nod and a quick flick of her fan as Percival rose from his seat and bowed. When he resumed his seat, he turned away from Grace to speak with Mr. Jackson.
Grace leaned forward to more clearly see the stage. At that moment, backstage would be bustling—actresses smoothing skirts, tucking lace into bodices, powdering faces one last time in front of stained mirrors; actors rubbing rouge into their cheeks; the prompter climbing into his box and spreading out his script; callboys prowling the wings, checking the scenery, making sure props were in place. Every actor and actress waiting to step onto the stage would be starting to breathe a little bit deeper. No matter how many times they performed, the tingle and flap of nerves were never completely stilled. Grace imagined that even Mr. Kemble himself was tamping down the excitement that was always part of life in the theater. It was that excitement—and the fear never far removed from it—that attracted people to seek a life on the stage. Its sudden lack in her life was an iron ball lodged in the pit of Grace’s stomach.
Chandeliers bristling with candles were suspended above the pit. With the performance about to begin, the benches were packed with people, the noise of their talking and laughing amplified in the small space. The band struck up “God Save the King,” and the audience rose. Grace joined in the wild clapping as, moments after they were again seated, Mr. John Philip Kemble strode onto the stage. Gravely, he acknowledged the applause, which built and crested until it seemed to Grace as if the entire theater would be rocked off its foundations. Goodwill flowed from the crowd to land at Mr. Kemble’s feet. After many minutes, he ended the applause with a modest dip of his head and then fixed his famous eyes on the farthest boxes.
“Ladies and Gentlemen.”
Skirts rustled and fans clicked as, all around Grace, people leaned forward to listen.
“The power of utterance is almost taken from me by the very great kindness of your reception on my reappearance before you. Be assured that, however words may fail me, I can never be wanting in the gratitude which is due for your patronage on many former occasions and still more particularly for your favor on the occurrence of that calamitous event which is the cause of our opening the King’s Theatre this evening.”
Next to her, Percival murmured, “Nicely said, man.” He nodded toward the stage. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he announces his intention to build a new theater at Covent Garden.”
Perhaps Ned had been right. In a flash, Grace’s imagination soared to a future where she was taken on at the newly rebuilt theater. But it would take years for Mr. Kemble and his partners to raise enough money. By the time the new theater was ready, Grace would be too old to act her favorite roles.
Mr. Kemble continued. “Proprietors are already occupied in preparations for constructing a theater that they trust will, by next September, be worthy of your attendance and patronage, and build the appropriate ornament of a British metropolis.”
“There you go, Grace,” said Percival, leaning so close that his lips almost touched her bare neck. “You need only wait another year.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of the theater.”
“I may reconsider if . . .”
Grace knew what he meant. Other actresses continued careers after they were married—many even had children. Mrs. Siddons had produced six children; and Mrs. Jordan, ten.
Grace settled in to watch the performance, but her mind was elsewhere. A decision needed to be made, but, like Hamlet, she preferred to put it off to another day.
* * *
Two weeks later, with fall already snapping at the air, Mr. Kemble gestured for Ned to stand to the side of the small group of men grouped around the table in a room above a Piazza coffeehouse. Ned’s rough working clothes set him apart from the other men who wore black coats and pressed trousers. A thin beam of sunlight fell across a table that was spread with a large drawing that showed the outlines of a stage and pit and boxes.
“It will be the largest theater in London, Mr. Kemble!” exclaimed an older man with ink-stained fingers and a sloppily tied cravat. His name was Mr. Bowles, and he worked for Mr. Robert Smirke, the architect commissioned to build the New Theatre. The great man himself was absent. He would not begin work until the managers amassed sufficient funds.
“Have you had word from the insurers?” asked Mr. Brandon. The fire had deprived the theater’s box office keeper of both his position and his home, forcing him to take up residence with his spinster sister. He was almost as eager as Mr. Kemble to see the theater rebuilt.
“We will get the full fifty thousand pounds,” Mr. Kembl
e said gravely.
“That is not even half of what’s needed!” exclaimed Mr. Brandon. “We cannot start rebuilding on so little.”
“I am well aware of our situation, Mr. Brandon,” said Mr. Kemble. “So much of what was lost—Handel’s organ, the costumes, even the wines we stored for the Beefsteak Club—was not insured. My poor sister even lost several yards of lace that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. She is inconsolable.” He placed both hands flat on the table, either side of a drawing depicting an elegant facade of columns.
Ned wondered why Mr. Kemble didn’t build something smaller with the insurance money, but he knew better than to ask. He was still getting over his shock that Mr. Kemble had made him his assistant, worthy of staying in the room with Mr. Brandon and Mr. Bowles. He’d wanted to run straight to Olympia to tell her and then remembered the general and thought better of it. Alec hadn’t been too happy about Ned getting so high and mighty, what with working directly with Mr. Kemble, but there wasn’t much Ned could do about that.
“We will set up a subscription,” Mr. Kemble said. “The people of London will support us.”
“To the tune of fifty thousand pounds?” asked Mr. Brandon. He smoothed his hand across a waistcoat darkened with spots of wine. “It will take years.”
“It will not!” Mr. Kemble snapped. “We must start building by Christmas.”
“But, sir, that is less than two months hence,” said Mr. Bowles. “It’s impossible.”
“I promised the people that a new theater will rise upon the ashes of the old within a year of its destruction, and I will not be made to take back my words.”
Mr. Bowles regarded the toes of his shined boots; Mr. Brandon picked fluff from his sleeve.
“Ned!” Mr. Kemble strode toward the door. “We have work to do. I need you to deliver some messages for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Ned followed Mr. Kemble down the stairs to the street. He didn’t know or care what his new duties would be. So long as he was of use to Mr. Kemble, he had a job and could be on the lookout for work that Alec could do. Ned wasn’t bothered about Alec living off his shilling for a time. When they were boys, they’d had a pact—whoever got work helped the other. No exceptions.
* * *
On a dreary afternoon in the middle of October, a handful of weeks after the fire, Grace sipped a tepid cup of tea in her aunt’s stuffy parlor. Hannah, her aunt’s maid, seemed incapable of delivering a hot one, and Grace had given up asking. She’d awakened that morning from a dream in which she’d stepped onto the London stage. Young men in the pit cheered and stamped, and the boxes spilled over with the cream of London society all clapping for her. Throughout a tediously wet day that kept her indoors, Grace tried erasing the images from her mind. Why upset herself? She knew what she had to do, and the sooner she got the opportunity, the better.
But her resolve weakened. When she set aside a worn copy of Othello to take tea, she relaxed back against the sofa cushions and imagined herself bowing with imperious charm in front of an audience, her expression both grave and humble. Her hand shook as she brought the thin china cup to her lips.
“A visitor, miss.” Hannah stood at the door.
“Who is it? I’m not expecting anyone.”
“It’s Mr. Knowlton, miss,” Hannah said. She jumped forward to catch Grace’s cup before it hit the floor. “Steady on. The mistress will have me head if any of the china’s broke.”
Grace rose from the sofa, and Othello slipped to the carpet. Now that Percival was here, she was no longer so sure of her decision. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could take the position as a governess that her aunt had told her about. Within weeks, she could be ensconced in a Hampshire country house where she’d be well treated, have useful employment, and be able to pass her love of Shakespeare on to the two young girls in her charge.
And she’d give up forever any chance of returning to the stage.
Screw your courage to the sticking place.
Percival sailed into the room, cleaving apart the stale air with all the aplomb of a decked-out navy frigate.
“Hello, Percival.”
He peeled off his gloves. Grace gestured to a chair while she settled herself on the sofa. He ignored the chair and lowered his legs sheathed in impeccably cut trousers next to her.
She took a deep breath. The arm of the sofa dug into her back, preventing her from moving when he leaned toward her. Any woman would be glad to have him. He was charming, clever, and rich enough to keep a house in town. And he was respectable, considering his father’s connections to trade. It wouldn’t do to have him too high up in society, not if she intended to continue her career on the stage.
“I have decided to accept your proposal of marriage,” she said before he could say anything.
Percival shifted back but kept one hand resting along the top of the sofa, inches from her shoulder. “As always, your directness is charming.”
“So you’ve said. Does your offer still stand?” She’d chosen this route; she’d stay the course. “Yes or no.”
Before she could stop him, he reached for her hand, swiveled to the side, and dropped to one knee. He arranged his face into an expression of romantic devotion. “My offer still stands, dearest.”
Grace wasn’t sure if the heaviness gripping her chest was relief or dread. “You can dispense with the dearest,” she said as she tried to extricate her hand.
“If we are to be married, you must allow me to treat you as a wife.” He tightened his hold. She jerked her hand free and jumped up, cheeks flaming, fingers tingling. Percival lost his balance and teetered on one knee, then clawed himself forward. First one elbow and then the other found purchase on the overstuffed sofa. With a grunt, he leveraged himself onto it. Grace was glad of the opportunity to calm her own breathing and take a chair opposite him. He smoothed his open palm across his hair and regarded her with narrowed eyes.
“Forgive me.”
“No need.” Grace straightened her spine and met his gaze, fiercely ignoring the sick thudding of her heart. “I have one condition.”
“Yes?”
“When the opportunity arises, I wish to continue my career on the stage.”
“Ah.” Percival sat back against the sofa and recrossed his legs. “The fire has not dampened your ardor? You must see that good society prohibits your continuing.”
“I do not care for good society, Percival.”
“No, but I do. My father’s history in trade is such that I cannot afford to court additional stains.”
“You’d consider me a stain?”
“Always so charming,” he murmured. “You are well aware what I mean.”
“My condition still stands, Percival. I want to act, and when the theater is rebuilt, I need to be free to return.”
“If they will have you.”
She inclined her head. “Of course.”
“You are certain this is what you want? You will not lack for money.”
“If it weren’t for the fire, I’d still be at the theater. It’s all I want.”
“Then why do you wish to marry me?”
“My aunt has made it very clear that she wishes me gone. Two days ago, one of her acquaintances asked me to consider a position in her home as a governess. If I do not marry you, I will have no choice but to accept it.”
“That is the only reason? If we’re to be married, do you think perhaps you should have some regard for me? I assure you I will have no difficulty returning it.” His frankly appraising gaze was as disconcerting as his touch. “I would not be ashamed to have you as my wife.”
“I prefer to consider our marriage as a business arrangement. I get the security of a steady income while I pursue a career on the stage.”
“And I get you? I see.” He let his words hang in the air, the silence lengthening as he continued to stare at her.
“Percy?”
“Please, my dear, call me Percival or, in company, Mr. Knowlton.”
�
��Fine. Percival. Do you agree to my terms?”
“Yes. I will marry you and not stand in your way should you decide to return to the stage.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t absolutely comfortable that his promise was sufficient security, but she was out of options.
“We have said what needs to be said for now,” Percival said. “I confess myself relieved.”
“When shall we marry?”
“You are in a rush?”
“If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.”
“I do hope you’ll not make a habit of trotting out Shakespeare every time you wish to make a point.”
“I’ll endeavor to restrain myself.”
He smiled thinly. “Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. I suggest we marry in mid-November.”
“That will be fine. We should keep the news from your mother until we are married. She won’t approve.”
“I have no objection. Do you wish to order wedding clothes? You’ll find me a generous husband, so far as I am able.”
“I assure you that wedding clothes are the furthest thing from my mind.”
“All to the good.”
“Good afternoon, Percy.” She paused. “Percival.”
He stood and bowed. “I shall wait upon you again tomorrow.” He turned on one heel and left the room. A moment later, Hannah’s drawling voice rose and fell with the shutting of the front door.
A swift inhale expanded into Grace’s head and prodded at her eyes and lips. She wished she had lines to say, because she had no words equal to the task of expressing what she felt.
Her mother had married for love and lived to be miserable with the man she chose. Grace was determined not to make the same mistake.
* * *
On Grace’s wedding day, the clouds leaked rain like a gently squeezed sponge. Only the union of Romeo and Juliet officiated by Friar Lawrence had included fewer people than attended the union of Percival and Grace. A distracted clergyman and two witnesses—neither known to Grace—were all the law required to make her into Mrs. Percival Knowlton. Olympia sent her regrets without explanation, and Percival did not invite his mother. There was no wedding breakfast and no lace on Grace’s gown.
The Muse of Fire Page 13