“The Theatre Royal at Drury Lane has just burned to the ground.”
“What?” She dropped her book. It landed face down and open on the carpet.
“London has now lost both of its patent theaters. I’m afraid there will be precious little Shakespeare for the next many months.” He stroked the starched folds of his cravat. “I’m sorry if the news distresses you.”
“It is beyond belief!”
“If only that were so, but these oversized theaters are dreadful firetraps. If it’s any consolation, a few days ago, I was introduced to Mr. Sheridan, the manager at Drury Lane, to name one of his many accomplishments. He’d heard of you through his connection with Mr. Harrison, who I believe was once quite the tragedian. Mr. Sheridan said he’d be delighted to meet with you.”
Grace stared at him.
“Shame it won’t come to anything now. You do rather have bad luck when it comes to theater managers. Well, enjoy the remainder of your afternoon, my dear, and remember that we are to dine tonight at the Jacksons’. My mother will be there. I’ll have the carriage sent around at five and would appreciate your being in the vestibule.” He stooped to pick up her book and handed it to her without closing it.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Grace glanced down at the open page.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
The line, spoken by treacherous King Claudius after Ophelia goes mad, wove like counterpoint through the tuneless melody her life had become.
* * *
The London drawing room of Mr. Lawrence Jackson, one of Percival’s richest acquaintances, buzzed with clinking teacups and murmuring females. Grace had hoped to avoid conversing with Percival’s mother while waiting in the drawing room for the men, but Augusta had taken Grace’s arm as soon as they exited the dining room and steered her to seats by the fire.
“I trust your health is improved,” Augusta said.
“Aunt?”
“Percival informed me at dinner that you’ve been unwell.” Aunt Augusta’s mouth stretched to a thin smile. “You are not . . . ?”
“No!” Grace exclaimed a little too loudly.
Several heads turned. Augusta frowned at the two ladies sitting nearby who were pretending not to eavesdrop. She snapped open her fan to shield her words. “Really, my dear, you do not need to raise your voice.”
“Forgive me, Aunt.” Grace accepted a cup of tea from a footman, conscious of the eyes still turned on her.
“Why, pray, would such a happy event be so abhorrent? Percival must produce a legitimate heir, and I wish for grandchildren.”
“I am sorry we’ve not yet obliged you,” Grace said.
“I trust you will not keep me waiting much longer.” Aunt Augusta leaned close. Lavender-scented powder clogged the fine web of wrinkles just starting to take up residence on her face. Grace took some small satisfaction knowing that her aunt must loathe above all things the fading of her beauty.
“I assume you have given up all pretensions to the theater,” Augusta said.
“Who told you that?”
A flicker of amusement crossed her aunt’s face. “No one, my dear. I am merely trusting to your good sense.”
“You’ve never yet satisfied my curiosity about my mother. Was she an actress?”
“You could say that.”
Grace waited.
“I suppose the answer is yes. Your mother did go onstage for a time.”
“She was successful?”
“Middling,” Augusta said. “You would do well to put aside foolish notions about the stage. It is a dreadful place for a woman.”
“I intend to return when the New Theatre opens.”
“I am aware that you do not believe me, my dear, but I have your best interests at heart. The stage cannot make you happy.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your mother stayed too long and paid a high price for her stubbornness.”
“What do you mean?”
Augusta rose from the table and signaled for the footman. “Enough questions. Go home with your husband and forget about the stage.”
* * *
The New Theatre Royal rose with white-columned splendor at the edge of the Piazza. All of London praised Mr. Kemble and the other managers for making good on their promise to rebuild the theater in less than a year.
It was two weeks before the theater was set to open, and Ned was having a mug of ale in a nearby tavern. A weedy young man with a face that looked like it never turned to the sun started talking loudly about the theater.
“Will you look here?” he said, holding up a piece of paper announcing the opening of the New Theatre. Ned was glad to see the notice being read—he’d gotten Alec the job delivering a sheaf of them around the Covent Garden coffeehouses and taverns.
“We ought to get tickets,” said his companion. “I hear the New Theatre’s very grand.”
“That’s what it says in the newspapers, but see the notice here? The prices have changed.”
“What? Let me read that!”
Ned was gratified by how avidly the two men studied the notice announcing the opening. The evening would begin at six with a speech by Mr. Kemble followed by a full production of Macbeth with Mr. Kemble in the title role and his sister, Mrs. Siddons, as Lady Macbeth. Ned was confident that everyone who came would not fail to be astonished. The New Theatre Royal was the largest and grandest in all of London, maybe even the world. Ned couldn’t attest to such a lofty claim, but he could not imagine any other people on earth capable of building such an edifice in so short a time.
“It ain’t right,” said one of the young men. He slammed his mug down so hard that ale slopped over the paper.
“What’s he playing at?” The other man snatched up the notice and shook off brown drops. “Here, listen to this.” He put on a posh voice and began to read.
“The proprietors, having completed the New Theatre within the time originally promised, beg leave respectfully to state to the public the absolute necessity that compels them to make the following advance on the prices of admission.”
“Necessity, is it? What do they mean by advance?”
“Boxes are now seven shillings and the pit’s four shillings. They’ve kept the lower and upper galleries at the old prices, which I guess is some comfort.”
“That ain’t no comfort at all. One of the carpenters told me that the top gallery is so high up that anyone in it will be lucky to see the actors’ feet, never mind anything else.”
“Sounds to me like the management wants to keep the likes of us out of their precious New Theatre.”
“You mean Mr. Kemble’s theater. He’s running the show, and if you ask me, he’s forgotten what he owes John Bull.”
Ned drained his glass and stood up. He was tempted to say something to the men. As soon as they saw the magnificent interior of the New Theatre, they’d stop resenting the few pennies’ increase in the ticket prices. Did they think the money to pay for the theater came from thin air? Ned had learned a great deal in the year since the old theater burned down. He often heard Mr. Kemble complain about the knife edge he and his partners existed on to keep the New Theatre from crumbling under debt as crushing as the ashes that buried the old theater. John Bull indeed! The ridiculous nickname for the common man was trotted out every time someone didn’t agree with something done by the quality. Well, Ned wasn’t quality, but he didn’t see how anyone could object to what Mr. Kemble built for the people of London. John Bull and his ilk should be grateful.
Chapter 18
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.
Richard III (5.2.23)
Mr. Kemble favored Grace with a distracted bow. With just ten days before the theater opened, he had the air of a man with no time to spare. “So you have returned, Miss Green.”
“I have married, sir. My name is Knowlton.”
“I wish you joy.”
“And may I also offer my congratulatio
ns on the New Theatre? It’s being spoken of as the toast of London. No one expected it to be rebuilt so soon after the fire.”
“People have made a habit of underestimating me,” said Mr. Kemble. He frowned. “To their detriment. What do you wish to see me about?” He gestured to the piles of papers on the desk tucked in the corner of a large dressing room. Shelves were half-built, and no costumes yet hung from the large wooden rack extending across one wall. “I am exceedingly busy.” He peered at her in the light thrown by the weak-flamed lamp on his desk. “And how did you get in? I left strict instructions with Mr. Harrison to keep the doors closed to actors.”
“Mr. Harrison was not at the door when I arrived, sir. I should have waited, but I am wishing most fervently to speak with you.” She took a few rapid, shallow breaths. Nerves fluttered and gnawed—as acute as any she’d felt before a performance. Mr. Kemble’s expression as he regarded her was far from friendly.
“I suppose you wish to return to the company.”
She nodded.
“Your eagerness is understandable. Who would not want to be a part of this grand enterprise?” Mr. Kemble flung one arm vaguely in the direction of the stage. “However, I regret that I cannot offer you a place.”
“Why?” she blurted.
“I did have hopes for you, Miss Green, ah, Mrs. Knowlton, but you have heard, no doubt, about the expenses incurred to build my new theater?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Sacrifices must be made, madam. I’ve engaged the incomparable Madame Catalani, who, as I’m sure you know, is one of the finest singers in all of Europe. In the interests of economy, I am obliged to reduce the number of players I take on this season. You understand, of course.”
“I am happy to sing in the chorus, sir.” Grace straightened her shoulders, conscious of the way in which the maroon cloth of her new gown molded to her figure. She’d come to the theater without telling Percival. As the summer wore on, he’d become increasingly resistant every time she’d mentioned returning to the stage. “I can also act, sir. Tragedy is my delight.”
“Your delight, is it?” The celebrated dark eyes appraised Grace. “My dear sister takes most of the tragic roles, and you lack sufficient experience. I am sorry, Mrs. Knowlton, but I have no place for you. Perhaps try again after Christmas. Many things can happen over the course of a season, and I may again have need of you.”
Grace did not move, even when Mr. Kemble picked up his pen, signaling with a curt nod that the interview was over. She could not let him dismiss her with such careless disregard. Ned told her how Mr. Kemble had compared her to the famous Peg Woffington, who had risen to stardom from very humble beginnings in Dublin.
“That will be all, madam. Please be careful on your way out. The theater is not yet complete. Loose boards and the detritus of construction are making the corridors hazardous.”
“Mr. Kemble, sir?” The door opened and Ned strode in.
“Ned!” Grace almost ran into his arms, restraining herself just in time, but she could not mask her smile.
“You’ve come back!” Ned grinned, his pleasure at seeing her so genuine that she felt like weeping.
Ned winked at her and then placed a stack of letters in front of Mr. Kemble. “These come for you, sir. Looks like more donations.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
“Will Miss Green be joining us for the season?”
“No. Please escort her from the theater.”
“Sir?” Ned stood like an oak tree in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, blue eyes steady.
“You heard me. I have no place for her.”
“I’m content to be of service wherever I am needed,” Grace said. Ned’s presence fueled her courage. If it hadn’t been for him, she would never have even entered the theater, much less got onstage.
Instead of replying, Mr. Kemble picked up one of the letters Ned had brought, scanned the contents, put it to one side, and then picked up another. He read it quickly and then to Grace’s surprise looked up. “Your husband is Mr. Percival Knowlton?”
“Yes, sir.” Surely Percy would not have stooped so low as to try influencing Mr. Kemble against her.
“How very curious. Your husband has just donated a generous sum to our building fund.” Mr. Kemble smiled. “A very generous sum. You should have told me.”
“I knew nothing about it, sir.” Grace did not dare look at Ned, but she could feel his eyes on her—sensed that his hopefulness matched her own.
“Your husband is not a stupid man, Mrs. Knowlton. He recognizes a good investment when he sees one.”
“I am glad, sir.”
“If you were not aware of your husband’s donation, then you are also not aware that it comes with a condition.”
Grace shook her head. That Percival was in a position to donate money to the theater was surprise enough, but a condition?
“Your husband wishes me to engage you for the season, and I confess that the generosity of his donation is such that I must reconsider my earlier refusal. I cannot promise you speaking parts, but I can assign you as understudy for my sister. Can you be ready should something happen to her? We open in ten days with Macbeth. I presume you are familiar with the part of Lady Macbeth?”
“Yes, of course, oh yes, Mr. Kemble. I’d be delighted.” Grace clamped her mouth shut and did not dare look at Ned. Kemble’s cheek twitched—disdain or amusement? Impossible to know. Lady Macbeth! Her despair evaporated like snow on the flanks of a galloping horse.
“You are not likely to be needed,” Mr. Kemble said. “My sister’s health has improved considerably over the summer. She is as eager as the rest of the company to get back onstage after such a long time away.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. And may I ask one thing?”
Mr. Kemble sighed audibly. “Yes?”
“May I continue to be known as Miss Green?”
To her surprise, Mr. Kemble laughed. “You would not be the first actor to adopt an alias for the stage, my dear. I will grant your request. Miss Grace Green it is.”
Grace curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Kemble. I am obliged to you.”
“Good day to you. Please tell your husband that I appreciate his assistance with the New Theatre.” Mr. Kemble dismissed her with a nod. “Ned! Show Miss Green to the stage door and then go ask Mrs. Beecham when I’m needed for a fitting of my new kilt.”
* * *
Grace almost collided with Mr. Harrison on her way out of the theater.
“Miss Green! This is a welcome surprise! But you appear agitated. May I be of assistance?”
Grace smiled as the old gentleman managed an arthritic bow. He’d been kind to her in the few weeks she’d been with the company—and now she’d be seeing him almost every night. Grace was already determined that her position as understudy to Mrs. Siddons must soon expand to other roles.
“Thank you, no. I’m sorry if I startled you. I have just come from meeting with Mr. Kemble, and it appears that I am again to join the company.”
“Wonderful news, my dear. You will be a charming addition.” Mr. Harrison leaned over his cane, his legs splayed and trembling. Grace leaned forward to take his arm. He tried to wave her away, but when she would not let go, he gave in and gripped her elbow, lips tightening over clenched teeth. Wincing with sympathy at the sight of feet twisted and swollen with gout, Grace helped him shuffle to his chair.
“Ah, that is better. I am glad to have you back, Miss Green.”
“Thank you.” Grace was about to turn away, anxious to get back to Percival and ask him about his donation to the theater, when an object on a shelf above Mr. Harrison’s small coal brazier caught her eye. She picked it up and turned it over, her hands shaking.
“Mr. Harrison?” Her voice sounded strangled.
“Yes, my dear?”
“This figurine? Is it yours?”
“Ah, yes. I received it many, many years ago. By great good luck, I did not have it here when the old theater burned down. I
brought it only today from my lodgings. I am a foolish man, and he reminds me of better times.”
Grace carefully set down the china figurine of a shepherd holding a lamb—the twin, she was sure, to the smashed shepherdess that had belonged to her mother. “It is very beautiful.”
“Indeed.” He peered up at her, his face shadowed. “You have a quality about you, my dear.” He seemed about to say more and then shook his head and pointed at a footstool just out of his reach. Grace pushed it toward him.
“Thank you. The fire destroyed my old chair, you know, but this new one is doing very well, although I miss running my hands over the shiny bits on the arms.” He smiled up at her. “The brocade had rubbed off over the years, you see, rough edges smoothed as it were, rather like me in my old age. Well, mind how you go. I believe the streets are wet.”
Grace chose to walk home rather than ask Mr. Harrison to find her a hackney coach. He must have known her mother, which of course made sense if her mother had been an actress. Their paths could have crossed. She shook her head. What did it matter now? More important was to make sure she did not give Percival any reason to change his mind. She arrived home, breathless and windblown, to find him in the sitting room, standing next to the mantel, one hand wrapped around a glass of wine.
“Why?”
“Charming and direct as always,” Percival said. “You have come from the theater, I gather.”
“Answer my question.”
“Really, my dear. You are hardly in a position to bark orders.”
Grace waited.
“You can be most exasperating.” He took a careful sip of his wine. Beautifully dressed as always, every inch of Percival screamed indolence and ease. He rested one elbow on the mantel, exposing a waistcoat brightly embroidered in the latest fashion. “If you must know, my mother came to me several days ago and told me to do everything in my power to keep you from the stage.”
“I don’t understand.” Aunt Augusta was the last person Grace expected to thank for Percival’s change of heart.
“It is not obvious?” He took another sip, his lips full and red.
“Not to me.”
The Muse of Fire Page 17