“You could at least pretend to be cheerful,” Percival said when they arrived at his house in Bedford Square after the ceremony.
Grace seated herself by the window and gazed out at the passing carriages. The gold band on her finger felt like it weighed ten pounds. She covered her left hand with her right and did not turn around when Percival came to stand behind her. Her reflection in the window showed huge eyes and a mouth set in a firm line. Juliet had loved her Romeo so much that she’d chosen death rather than life without him. Grace smelled starched linen and another, deeper smell that made her belly lurch with that strange sharpness that was more pleasure than pain. This feeling could not be love—not the pure, sacrificial love of Juliet for her Romeo. Grace shifted her position slightly, enough to squelch the sharpness and leave behind a quiet ache. Real life was nothing like the stage.
“Grace.”
She didn’t move, but neither did she resist when Percival stepped in front of her and leaned back against the window seat, blocking out her reflection. He reached for her hands. “You don’t need to fear me.”
She wanted to pull away but realized that she must not. He was her husband now, her Romeo.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea.
My love as deep . . .
Slowly, with a deliberation that deepened the strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, Percival leaned forward and for the first time pressed his lips against hers. For a second, just a second, she let herself soften into his kiss, let herself feel something. And then sense prevailed.
She tightened her lips and opened her eyes.
Chapter 14
But shall I live in hope?
Richard III (1.2.199)
“Letter for you, sir,” Ned said as he walked into Mr. Kemble’s office above one of the coffeehouses overlooking the Piazza at Covent Garden. As usual, Mr. Kemble was working at a table placed under the window, a wool scarf wrapped around his neck to ward off the freezing air. A few hours earlier, Ned had cracked ice to get water for his tea.
Mr. Kemble rubbed his hands together to warm them. “Leave it on the table, Ned. I’ll see to it later.”
“You’ll want to be opening this one right away, sir,” Ned said. He held it up to show Kemble the coat of arms pressed into the seal. “It looks important.”
“Really, Ned, I believe I may be trusted to decide which letters are important and which are not.” Mr. Kemble wrote for a few moments more before laying down his pen and holding out his hand. “Very well. I can see that you’re fit to burst. What’s so special about this letter?”
“It was hand delivered, sir. The footman what brought it was very grand.”
Mr. Kemble glanced at the seal. “I say, Ned, you’re right. It’s from the Duke of Northumberland.”
“Sir?”
Mr. Kemble waved him to silence. Ned watched anxiously as Mr. Kemble broke the seal and scanned the contents, his expression grave as always. The only time Ned had ever seen Mr. Kemble’s face betray emotion was when he projected to the highest galleries.
One dark eyebrow rose. “I say.”
Ned leaned forward. “What is it, sir? Do you need me to deliver a return message?”
Mr. Kemble’s mouth curved into a rare smile. What news could the letter possibly contain to rouse him from his customary gravity? Mr. Kemble spent every waking minute soliciting funds for the New Theatre. Subscriptions were coming in, but Ned had overheard Mr. Brandon say that they were still many tens of thousands of pounds short. November had already clamped gloomy skies over London, and plans were underway to start construction of the New Theatre at the end of December.
“Well, Ned, you were right to press me. This letter does indeed contain good news. Very good news indeed.” Mr. Kemble laid the letter flat on the table and smoothed it with one hand. “Do you wish to know what His Grace says?”
“Sir! Yes. That’s kind of you, sir.” Fancy him being privy to a letter from a duke! Alec would get a laugh out of that.
“Yes, well, I confess myself inclined to share the news, and since there’s no one else here, you’ll have to do.” He smiled again to take any offense from his words, although Ned hadn’t taken any. “As I said, the letter is from the Duke of Northumberland. You will have heard of him?”
“Yes, sir, I mean, well, not exactly, sir.”
“It’s no matter. The duke will be sorry to hear that his fame does not extend to the lower orders, but we’ll not be the ones to tell him, eh?” Mr. Kemble laughed. “Several years ago, I had the great good fortune to tutor the duke’s son in the art of elocution.”
Ned had no idea what Mr. K. was talking about, but there was nothing new in that. He waited and listened, a polite look on his face. Mr. Kemble rarely passed up the opportunity to show off his superior knowledge.
“Speaking, Ned. The duke wanted his son, who was ten years old at the time, to learn how to speak well in company. Owing to my modest success as an actor—”
“Sir!”
“You are right. False modesty is most unbecoming in a man such as myself. The duke had seen me perform many times and considered me a fit teacher for his son. I was happy to oblige. I gave the young man lessons for a few months at most. He was a likely lad and learned quickly. Well, let’s to it. Here’s what the duke says.” He picked up the letter and began to read:
“My dear Mr. Kemble, I have been looking these past ten years for a way to repay you for your kindness in teaching my son how to speak well. You will be happy to know that he is now at Oxford and by all accounts doing well. The loan of ten thousand pounds I sent some months ago for the rebuilding of the theatre is forgiven. I do not require a penny to be repaid, nor do I wish to collect any interest. Your services to me and to the nation deserve nothing less.”
“He’s giving you ten thousand pounds?” Ned asked. How rich must the duke be to part with so much?
“It appears so.” Mr. Kemble put down the letter. “There is a lesson in this, Ned. Our actions, no matter how insignificant we consider them, can have undreamed of repercussions.”
Ned nodded gravely. “Of course, sir.” He sometimes wondered if Mr. Kemble ate dictionaries for breakfast.
“I never thought that my helping the duke’s son could result in such an act of generosity.”
Ned brightened. “The duke must be a very great man.”
“That he is, Ned. Give me a minute to write my reply, and then you can take it to him. We’ll not trust the post with such a message, eh?”
Mr. Kemble chuckled to himself as he dipped his pen in the inkwell.
* * *
Olympia stood in the middle of the gravel path bordering the Serpentine in Hyde Park, her small figure shaking with anger.
“You married him? Grace, how could you?”
Sun played across the lake, but the mid-December air was icy, making Grace glad of the new woolen cloak Percival had insisted on having made for her. “You must understand my situation, Olympia. I cannot stay in my aunt’s house forever, and with the theater gone—”
“London is full of theaters.”
“Yes, but only two are licensed to perform serious drama, and I have no connections at Drury Lane.”
“Times are changing in London, Grace. The newer theaters are finding ways to get around the old patent-theater system. Some are even putting on Shakespeare plays—or at least excerpts. And maybe you could get taken on as a singer.”
“I must be practical.”
“And so you decided to marry a man you do not love.”
“I am fond of him,” Grace said.
“Really? You don’t act like you are.”
“He is not a bad man, Olympia, and he’s very handsome, which you’d know if you’d have come to our wedding.”
“I was otherwise engaged,” Olympia said. She gazed out at the lake for several moments and then sighed—her breath a white cloud in the glittering air. “I may as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’ve
found work over at Astley’s.”
“The circus?”
“I stand in the ring and clap my hands while the acrobats do their contortions. It is not satisfying work.”
“Well, at least you still have your sense of humor.”
“My mother wants me to find someone with money to marry, but I have refused. She doesn’t approve of Astley’s, but for now I have prevailed. At least the pay is good.”
“Percival has promised that when the Theatre Royal is rebuilt, he will allow me to contact Mr. Kemble.”
“How very generous of him.”
Grace fixed her gaze on the frost speckling the grass bordering the path. Olympia’s attitude surprised and dismayed her. Gone was the easiness of the summer when she and Olympia had spent hours together—laughing, practicing lines, suffering with great good humor the hardships of constant travel.
The fire had changed everything.
After several more minutes of walking along the frozen path, boots crunching, Olympia took Grace’s arm. “Forgive me. I am giving in to bitterness, and I should not. You must know that being married is no guarantee of anything. Mrs. Siddons’s late husband squandered a shocking amount of her money on poor investments, and look at Mrs. Jordan! Her position is precarious at best.”
“Fortunately, Percival is not a duke, and I have no plans to have ten children,” Grace said drily.
“Poor Mrs. Jordan will be thrown off soon enough, and then where will she be, with all those children to care for?”
“Perhaps if she had married, she’d not be in danger of suffering such a fate.”
“The Duke of Clarence can hardly marry an actress. No, he’ll have to give her up soon and marry someone royal. I’ve heard that he and Mrs. Jordan were very happy for decades, but that will not save her.”
“Then I suppose I’m lucky to have Percival. You won’t believe how many hearts I’ve broken by accepting him. Half the young ladies in London had their eye on him.”
“I suppose if you are to be married, you may as well marry someone worth looking at.”
“What about you, Olympia?” Grace asked. “You must know that Ned thinks the world of you.”
“My mother wants me to marry well, although she is hardly a model for matrimonial bliss. I am better off staying in the theater—the circus now—and having some measure of independence.”
“You care for Ned. I know you do.”
“Since when does caring for someone make any difference to anything?”
Grace could not dispute it.
* * *
“By God, Ned, we’re on our way! Have you had a message yet from His Highness?” Mr. Kemble stopped pacing to face Ned as he entered the shabby room above the coffeehouse. In the dismal light of a rain-drenched day a week after Christmas, Mr. Kemble practically crackled with nervous energy.
“No, sir, not yet, but he said he’s coming, right? He’s not the kind of gentleman to disappoint, is he?”
Mr. Kemble frowned. “If I did not consider you incapable of irony, Ned, I would accuse you of disloyalty to our prince.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.” Mr. Kemble struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other raised to the low rafters. “How do I look?” In honor of the occasion, Mr. Kemble wore knee breeches, white stockings, and shiny black shoes with silver buckles.
“Very fine, sir, although you might want to take an umbrella. It’s awful wet out today.”
“Good heavens, no! I’ll not stand before His Highness holding an umbrella. The rain will stop soon.”
Ned held out Mr. Kemble’s cloak. “Shall we go, sir? Your sister is coming?”
“Dear Mrs. Siddons wouldn’t miss it for the world. She’s as fond of royalty as any woman in the kingdom.” Mr. Kemble barked out a laugh. “I doubt even she can count how many times she’s played a queen.”
“People say, sir, that you and your sister be the king and queen of the London stage.”
“Nonsense! You should never believe everything you hear in this town.” Mr. Kemble pretended to scowl, but his lips twitched into a smile. “We don’t want to keep the people waiting. We’ll join the procession when it reaches Bow Street.”
The laying of the first stone of the grand New Theatre Royal at Covent Garden on December 31, 1808, began with a procession from Freemasons’ Hall in Great Queen Street. Ned had never seen anything so splendid. The masters, along with the tylers, deacons, and other officers from the individual lodges, carried their insignia with measured solemnity along Bow Street. Their destination was a gallery covered with green cloth that led to an elegant marquee at the northeast corner of the building site.
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, arrived at the marquee at the same time as the procession. A royal salute of cannon boomed out to welcome the prince, and then six bands struck up “God Save the King.”
Ned shivered in the snow-streaked rain that pooled at the base of his neck and seeped under his collar to his skin. He stood a few feet away from Mr. Kemble, who had stationed himself as close as possible to the prince—who was also the grand master—and the deputy grand master. Mud spattered Mr. Kemble’s stockings, and droplets of water trickled across his brow and glistened in his soaked side-whiskers. But the rain had no power to dampen the spirits of the hundreds of people gathered for the ceremony, most singing lustily.
After the anthem, Mr. Robert Smirke, the esteemed architect, stepped forward and presented to the prince a rolled-up plan of the building. His Royal Highness then deposited a brass box into a cavity hollowed out of the foundation stone. Ned learned later that the box was filled with medals and coins of the realm. He and Alec had a good laugh over the folly of burying perfectly good money. The deputy grand master presented a silver gilt trowel to the prince, who stepped in front of the foundation stone suspended above a prepared bed of cement. He bent at the waist and smoothed the cement and then nodded for the stone to be lowered.
After fussing with various tools presented by other important people, the prince took up a mallet and knocked in the stone with three sharp strokes. Ned craned his neck around Mr. Kemble’s shoulder. Next to him stood Mrs. Siddons, the black ostrich feathers in her hat drooping in the rain. She also had scorned an umbrella.
With a sweeping gesture worthy of an actor in the throes of a tragic soliloquy, the prince poured over the stone an offering of corn, wine, and oil from three different silver vases. Finally, Mr. Smirke stepped forward and, after waiting patiently through several fine speeches and returning numerous bows, received back the plan of the New Theatre.
A burst of cannon fire made Mrs. Siddons jump, her ostrich feathers quivering like startled cat tails. Moments later, His Royal Highness swept off with all the other dignitaries, including Mr. Kemble and his sister.
Ned joined in the cheering. Throngs of spectators gathered within the bounds of the new building; hundreds more hung out of windows, many waving flags. A band of Highland bagpipes squealed.
As soon as the procession moved away, dozens of small bodies swarmed over the stone to scoop up the scattered corn. Ned recognized a few of the boys as the pickpockets and scavengers who prowled the Piazza. He made no move to stop them. It seemed only fair they got something out of a building they’d never enter.
“Quite the to-do, ain’t it?”
Ned grinned as he turned to greet Alec. Not long after Ned had gone to work for Mr. Kemble, Alec had landed his own job. Most nights Alec got home after Ned was asleep and was still snoring when he got up. “I didn’t expect to you to be here. They keepin’ you busy over at Drury Lane?”
“I got no complaints.”
“Ain’t that a new jacket?”
Alec held up one arm to show how the raindrops beaded on the thick black wool. “Drury Lane’s paying me better than old Mr. K. ever did.”
“Just to stand at the door and let people in and out?”
“Yeah, well, that’s just part of me job,” Alec said. “I get to crack a few heads now and then whe
n lads in the pit get rowdy.”
“I’m glad for you,” Ned said. “Let’s go get ourselves a drink to celebrate the new year. Mr. Kemble don’t need me until Monday.”
Alec laughed and slapped Ned on the back. “Me and you done good for ourselves, all things considerin’.”
“Who’d have thought it when we was growing up at the hospital?”
“Not old Mrs. King, to be sure,” Alec said. “She’d be twirling in her grave if she knew Alec and Ned got anywhere other than gaol or transported.” The matron at the Foundling Hospital had particularly loathed Alec and Ned because she had never been able to control them.
“You ever wonder about your mother, you know, the one what left you off?” Ned asked.
“Naw. Why bother? You’ve seen yourself how desperate girls can get when they got babies they can’t take care of.”
“Do you blame her?” Ned asked.
“No.” Alec opened the tavern door. A stream of light and noise spilled into the darkening afternoon. Before going inside, he turned to Ned. “Let the past lie where it fell, Ned. Maybe one day you’ll have your own babe to care for. Pray you won’t need to give it up like we was.”
Ned pushed past his friend into the welcome heat, his jaw set.
* * *
Grace sat alone by the fire in yet another drawing room, enduring yet another evening of empty conversation. Like most of the ladies around her, she pretended interest in the polite chatter while at the same time keeping an eye on the double doors leading to the dining room. Finally, cigar smoke and laughter ushered in the men.
Three of them bowed to Grace and took chairs close by to continue their conversation about the laying of the foundation stone for the New Theatre Royal at Covent Garden.
“The rain was abysmal, but I’m not sorry I went. Plenty of pomp and fine speeches.” The youngest of the three men wore a blinding white cravat that buttressed a pink chin.
The Muse of Fire Page 14