The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

“I can understand them.”

  “Yes, but must they keep up such a racket? We may as well not act, for all the good it does anyone.”

  “Old Kemble will not bend.”

  “Miss Green? Mr. Renfrew? A word.”

  Grace whirled around to see Mr. Kemble standing directly behind her, frowning.

  * * *

  Several hours after the end of the performances on October 9 of Richard III and an afterpiece called Raising the Wind that should have been called Riling the Crowd, Mr. Kemble walked out onto the empty stage and called for Ned to gather the lads who worked as ticket takers and dealt with troublemakers.

  “You’ve got to admire his nerve,” Alec whispered when he joined Ned on a bench in the pit.

  “I’ve gathered you here for two reasons,” Mr. Kemble said. He spoke as if he were delivering one of Hamlet’s soliloquies rather than addressing a handful of men seated a few yards in front of him.

  “He ain’t backing down, that’s for sure,” Alec said.

  “Shut it!” Ned whispered. “You know he won’t tolerate talking.” He’d not forgiven Alec for calling him a flunky, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see his friend get in trouble. Alec exhaled a curse. Ned ignored him and fixed his attention on Mr. Kemble, who paced back and forth across the stage, his voice rising as he warmed to his subject.

  “First, I commend you for your efforts in keeping control of these so-called rioters. You’ve comported yourself with restraint and dignity, and I want to assure you that your efforts have not gone unnoticed.”

  “Get on with it, man,” Alec said under his breath. He flexed stubby fingers, flecks of dried blood still clinging to his knuckles. The night before, Ned had watched Alec use his fists to control a young rioter with more drink in him than sense who’d tried climbing past the spikes installed in front of the stage to keep back the rioters.

  “That said,” Mr. Kemble continued, “I have decided that you require assistance.”

  “What’s this? We ain’t in need of no assistance,” Alec muttered.

  “I’ve hired professional pugilists whom I have charged with controlling the crowd, particularly those ruffians making a commotion in the pit. I ask that you accord them every courtesy. You will continue to station yourselves at the entrances, where it is to be hoped you can waylay some of the more boisterous sorts.”

  “What’s that he’s saying?” Alec asked. “He talks like a bleedin’ book.”

  “What do you expect? He’s an actor.”

  “Oy!” Alec’s voice cut across Mr. Kemble’s.

  “Alec!”

  “Sir!” he called again.

  Mr. Kemble stopped talking and glared down at him. “What is it, man?”

  “Yer not serious ’bout bringing in boxers, are you, sir?”

  “Very serious. You must know by now that I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean.”

  Ned pulled at Alec’s arm and tried with his bulkier body to step in front of his friend until he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Alec didn’t know that Kemble had a formidable temper.

  “It’s a mistake, sir!”

  Ned dropped his hand from Alec’s arm.

  “If that is how you feel, then you are not obliged to stay in the employ of this theater. You are dismissed.” Mr. Kemble scowled at the other lads. “Does anyone else think it’s a mistake for the management to defend our property?”

  Ned knew he should step forward and defend Alec. How often had the two of them gotten into scrapes in the old days? They’d always stuck together, always taken the blame for each other’s misdeeds. But Ned had never told Alec what Mrs. King at the Foundling Hospital had said to him one time after he and Alec were caught and punished for stealing apples from Covent Garden market.

  Mrs. King called him into the dank room she used as an office. Ned expected more scolding—Mrs. King was a great one for scolding. What he got was maybe worse, maybe better.

  “You’re not like Alec,” she said.

  “Alec’s me mate.” What was she on about? He’d known Alec since they were both four years old and brought back to the Foundling Hospital from the country, where they’d been sent as babies. Ned had few memories of the woman who had cared for him beyond the smell of sheep and smoke and the feel of the husband’s broad hand slapping his backside.

  “I want to tell you something that I hope you’ll take to heart,” said Mrs. King.

  Ned glowered at the floor.

  “Now that you’re ten, you’ll soon be leaving us.”

  “I know.” Not for the world would he let old Mrs. King see the terror that haunted his nights when he imagined the world outside the hospital. He’d be apprenticed to do some kind of job, but he didn’t know what. At least he was already too tall for the chimneys.

  “You’re kind, Ned,” Mrs. King said.

  He looked up. She’d always been such a grand, forbidding presence in his short life—to be avoided and reviled. Now he saw a woman creeping toward old age, her hair dry and gray, her cheeks pocked like thin porridge.

  “Looks like I’m gone,” Alec said as soon as Kemble strode off the stage. “And a good thing too. I don’t fancy playin’ second fiddle to a load of boxers.”

  “You shouldn’t have talked to him so disrespectful, like.”

  “I ain’t any man’s lickspittle, even your precious Mr. Kemble.”

  “What yer goin’ to do now?”

  The habitual black-toothed grin that Alec wore to defend himself against the world folded into thin lips. “What do you care?”

  Before Ned could say anything more, Alec pushed his way through the crowd of lads, all muttering about Mr. Kemble’s harshness and, it had to be said, Alec’s stupidity. Moments later, one of the side doors leading from the pit to the street slammed shut.

  If Ned was really as kind as old Mrs. King thought, he’d follow Alec and talk sense to him. But Ned stayed put. Alec had made his own damn bed, and he could lie in it and starve, so far as Ned was concerned.

  Ned also couldn’t spare another minute for anger on Mr. Kemble’s behalf. The evening performance would go up in two hours, and he still had a thousand things to do. He made his way backstage and down a corridor to Mr. Harrison’s room next to the stage door. They were short two girls for the chorus that evening—both gone after declaring they’d rather sell hot pies in the market than go onstage to be hissed at. He hoped Mr. Harrison would know where to find some replacements.

  Ned was almost to Mr. Harrison’s room when he heard a voice he’d heard lately only in dreams. He paused at the doorway. She was bending toward Mr. Harrison, smiling, shaking his hand. She’d grown thinner over the summer. When she turned to see him watching her, he saw sallow cheeks.

  “Hello, Ned.”

  He bobbed his head. “Miss Adams.”

  Her eyes widened slightly at the formal greeting, and he fancied that she looked a little bit hurt, which was at least some compensation for the months he’d spent trying to forget her.

  “Olympia here’s come back to us,” Mr. Harrison said cheerfully. “And not a moment too soon after we lost them two from the chorus.”

  “These riots are shocking,” Olympia said sympathetically, “but surely they can’t last much longer. There have been riots before.”

  “Aye,” Mr. Harrison said, “but never so bad as this. I remember, oh, early seventies it must have been, when people made a right fuss because Mr. Garrick didn’t appear in Hamlet when the playbill said he would. People booed and carried on something fierce.” Mr. Harrison grimaced. “I should know. I was the poor sod who played Hamlet in his place.”

  Olympia laughed and patted his arm. “I am glad to be back,” she said. “Your new room is much more spacious than the one in the old theater, and I see you’ve gotten yourself a new chair.”

  “More’s the pity. There’s a shocking draft, and as for my chair . . .” He sighed loudly. “Well, my dear, you’d best go with Ned here to get yourself sorted out for tonight. Ned? Yo
u’re standing there like a great pillock. What’s wrong with you? Olympia here’s come back.”

  “I can see,” Ned said stiffly. She hadn’t said anything when he called her Miss Adams, and so far as he could tell, she wasn’t wearing a ring. He knew he didn’t have any right to hope, but being human and all, he couldn’t help himself.

  * * *

  Grace arrived home early from the theater, still flushed with confusion and some delight after her hurried conversation backstage with Mr. Renfrew. He’d not said anything improper, but the expression in his eyes when he looked at her had made her feel somehow different, admired. Did he care for her? She didn’t have a word for how she felt about him. She only knew that she no longer wished to avoid his company.

  Grace refused Betsy’s offer of charred toast and took only tea in the sitting room, in front of the fireplace brimming with ashes in an unswept grate. She noticed that Betsy’s hair was trailing from her cap and her apron was askew. Grace really needed to have a word with Mrs. Granger, the housekeeper.

  She opened her script of Romeo and Juliet, but after a few minutes, with the light from the single candle flickering across her exhaustion, she pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and let her head loll back against the sofa. Yes, Mr. Renfrew cared for her. Every time Grace was waiting to go onstage, he came up to her and whispered encouragement and was in the wings again when she came off, smiling at her, complimenting her. She had never wanted a man to care for her. And yet . . .

  She closed her eyes and relaxed into the blessed silence, letting her mind drift back to the stage. She imagined an audience that watched her with breathless fascination, taking in with willing ears and open hearts every word she spoke. Even the rioters were quiet for once, charmed by her skill and beauty. Everywhere was warmth—the lamps, the faces rapt with wonder, Mr. Kemble smiling his approval. Grace owned her place on the stage and no one could take it from her. She smiled and curtsied, accepting the applause with eyes downcast and cheeks flushed.

  An arm encircled her waist, and strong fingers pressed the bare flesh of her wrist. She moaned and softened into the touch.

  “My dear!”

  Percival’s voice dashed against her pleasure like sharpened nails. She sat up and brushed his hand away. The script slithered to the carpet where it fell open.

  “Are you unwell?”

  The concern in his voice disconcerted her. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Obviously.” The usual drawl was back. “But really, my dear, it is hardly the thing. You have a perfectly good bed upstairs.”

  “I did not intend to fall asleep,” Grace said with as much dignity as she could muster. “This evening—”

  “Was trying. Yes, I know.”

  “You came again to the theater?”

  “Yes.” He moved closer and placed his open palm against her cheek. “You were even lovelier this time. I believe you are improving. Those ruffians in the audience could not have seen a better Lady Anne.” He’d never used such a gentle tone with her. “You are fatigued.”

  She rose swiftly to her feet. “I am perfectly well, Percival. We are learning to ignore the commotion in the pit.”

  “The fighting is getting out of hand. I cannot have it, Grace.”

  Rather than reply, she bent to pick up her script.

  “Another role?”

  “Juliet.”

  “Ah, well that must please you. But you can’t want to play her under these circumstances. If the rabble is not content now, what more can Mr. Kemble do?”

  “Perhaps Mr. Kemble will give in and lower the prices.”

  “Unlikely. He believes such a course would ruin him, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  “I have no wish to discuss it, Percival,” Grace said. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” She turned to the door.

  “Grace.”

  She whirled around. With no fire lit, the room was chilly, and yet an unwanted heat settled over her shoulders. Before she could stop him, he reached for her, enfolded her in his arms, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. His lips grazed the top of her head. “I am sorry, Grace. Truly, I am. But you cannot continue.”

  “You said I could.” Her voice was muffled by his jacket.

  “That was before these ridiculous disturbances. I can’t have it, Grace. You must see that.”

  For a few moments, Grace let herself find safety in his embrace.

  My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love as deep.

  “I can’t stop,” she said, pulling back from him.

  He dropped his arms from her shoulders and strode around her to the door. With a click of his heels and a bow, his face averted from hers, he held the door open for her. “Good evening, my dear. I trust you can find your own way to your room.”

  She passed out the door into the vestibule and then stopped at the bottom of the staircase. The clock struck one. Rain spattered against the glass panes of the front door. Percival fastened his cloak and picked up an umbrella.

  “You are not going to bed?” she asked.

  “No.”

  It would be the work of a moment, the flick of a shoulder, a flash of her eyes. He was her husband. She did not move to climb the stairs, almost wishing he’d reach for her again. One word would be enough to stop him.

  He opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

  She mounted the stairs alone.

  * * *

  The presence of professional boxers in the pit enraged the OPs so much that fights broke out every night the theater was open. Gone was the spirit of fun that had infused the actions of even the loudest rioters. Now, young men faced off with deadly earnest against the infamous pugilists, Dutch Sam and Dan Mendoza, along with a gang of their boxing cronies. Bloody noses and cracked skulls turned the pit into a battleground.

  “What do you think about these boxers, Ned?” Grace asked one evening as she waited to go onstage. Dressed as a servant girl, she was good-naturedly replacing one of the female utilities in a small role that required little acting skill beyond standing in the right place at the right time.

  “Don’t let Mr. Kemble know, but I think it’s daft havin’ them in the theater. The magistrates have gone and put up signs announcing that anyone caught rioting will be prosecuted, but that ain’t right neither. I don’t like what the rioters are doin’, but they ain’t criminals.”

  “Why did Mr. Kemble hire the boxers?”

  Ned shrugged. “I guess he thinks they’ll control the crowds better than our own lads can.”

  “It’s not working.”

  “True enough.” He peered past her to the stage. “Your cue’s coming up.”

  He handed her the tray she was to carry, and then glanced out at the pit seething, as usual, with angry men. A short man with a black-toothed grin was standing on one of the benches and brandishing a trumpet. In response to yells of encouragement, the man blew a cacophony of off-key notes.

  Ned lunged forward. In another step, he’d be on the stage.

  “Ned! Where are you going?”

  With a sigh of frustration, Ned stepped back into the shelter of the wings.

  “You almost walked onstage!”

  “I forgot meself. Please don’t mention it to Mr. Kemble.” Damn Alec. What was he playing at, raising a ruckus in the pit along with the other troublemakers?

  “Of course not.”

  Onstage, Mr. Cooke raised his arm to call for the maid, Grace’s signal to enter. As the riots continued to rage, the actors had developed their own set of visual cues to compensate for the noise.

  “Off you go, Grace.”

  “Thank you, Ned.” She flashed him a smile before hastening onstage.

  Ned watched Grace go with mixed feelings. Her growing partiality for Mr. Renfrew worried him. Had she forgotten Renfrew’s treatment of her the year before? He peered out at the pit again. Alec had got hold of a rattle now and was cranking it round and round over his head. What a fool! He’d get himself arrested or beaten up b
y one of the hired bruisers.

  Ned was finally able to leave the theater half an hour after the end of the afterpiece. The crowd had dispersed more swiftly than usual, thanks in large part to the efforts of Mr. Kemble’s pugilists. At least they were good for something.

  Ned said goodnight to old Mr. Harrison, who was nodding off in his chair, and left the theater by the Bow Street entrance. He got as far as the corner of Hart Street before walking straight into the middle of an ambush.

  Chapter 23

  Cowards die many times before their deaths;

  The valiant never taste of death but once.

  Julius Caesar (2.2.32–33)

  “Look there! He works for Mr. Kemble.”

  Ned swung around and narrowly dodged a fist aimed at his head. Instinct took over. With all his strength, he drove his elbow into his attacker’s stomach.

  “Oy!” Another man leapt onto Ned’s back and clutched at his neck. Ned spun around and kicked. The man dropped into the mud, arms flailing.

  “Get off home with you!” Ned yelled. “The theater’s closed.”

  The man on the ground struggled to his feet while a third man plowed one fist and then the other into Ned’s ribs. A white-hot rage catapulted Ned into a fourth man, who raised both elbows, catching Ned square on the jaw so he doubled over, his cheek grazing his knees. A heavy boot lashed out at his ankles. Just in time, Ned sidestepped it and then pivoted, landing a solid punch into a soft stomach. Another fist caught him in the eye, which immediately started to close. But he didn’t need to see to fight. The men were coming at him on all sides—punching, kicking, cursing. Ned flailed his arms like the vanes of a windmill, catching one man and then another and flinging them down.

  “Leave him, lads! He ain’t one of the fighters.”

  Ned recognized Alec’s voice, dimly aware of his friend dancing on the periphery of the fight and trying to pull off one of the attackers. Ned started to turn his head to tell Alec not to try helping him. He’d only get himself hurt. Another fist smashed into his cheek.

  “He works for Kemble, don’t he?” yelled the man who hit Ned. “I seen him come out the stage door.”

  “I said leave him!” Alec shouted.