“How fascinating.” She kept her eyes on Grace, ignoring Percival. “You believe this Ned fellow is your mother’s bastard son?”
Grace flinched. “The evidence is compelling.”
“You call this evidence?”
“The buttons are identical. Mrs. Gale—my mother’s housekeeper—said the button came from Mama’s Juliet costume.”
“Her costume?”
The malice in Augusta’s voice surprised Grace. Why should her aunt care what roles her mother had played? “Mrs. Gale told me that Juliet was my mother’s favorite role. And I know about the tokens left by mothers for their babies at the Foundling Hospital. This button could have been left by my mother.”
“Your mother never acted Juliet.”
Percival was on his feet, pacing around the small sitting room that faced the unkempt back garden at his mother’s London house. “What are you talking about, Mother? I saw the stage jewels that Aunt Charlotte left behind. She could not have come by them if she had not been an actress.”
“I never said that Charlotte was not an actress, only that she never played Juliet.” Augusta had regained her composure and spoke with perfect calm, as if commenting on the weather and not the genesis of a good man’s life.
Grace stared at her aunt. Why would she be so hostile about her mother’s roles? Augusta had to be hiding something. Grace longed to take hold of the faded ribbons hanging from her aunt’s lace cap and pull them—make her tell everything she knew about her sister. Nothing was right about any of this. She remembered hearing her father tell her mother that we must not raise another actress. Another? Her father must have known about Charlotte’s background, and yet he’d married her anyway.
Had her father seen her mother act and been enchanted? Grace could hardly imagine her stern, black-browed father enchanted about anything. And yet for all his sour moods, Grace knew with complete certainty that even if he was indifferent to his daughter, her father had loved her mother.
“Please tell us what you know, Aunt.”
Augusta gazed down at her clasped hands as if hoping to find the answer there. Finally, she let out an irritated sigh. “I can see that you will not be satisfied with anything but the truth.”
“If you know something about Ned, then you must tell us, Mother. Grace has no wish to be related to such a man.”
“That is unkind, Percival! I’ve said no such thing.”
“Enough.” Augusta’s voice still commanded attention. She glared at Percival until he stopped pacing and seated himself next to the window. “Thank you. Grace, the button that your mother kept all these years did indeed come from Juliet’s costume, but it was my costume, not hers.”
“You were an actress?”
“Yes, Percival, to my shame, I was.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“It was not necessary that you should know. My father managed a small company of traveling players. He took my sister and me all over the country, even to Ireland one dreadful summer. Both of us were onstage almost before we could walk. When I was sixteen and Charlotte eighteen, we were taken on at the Theatre Royal in Bath. Those were difficult years, Percival, that I wish to forget. Your father saved me.”
Grace glanced over at Percival, who was looking like he’d been run over by a speeding carriage.
“This is all very distressing to have to talk about so many years later,” Augusta continued, apparently not noticing the effect of her words on Percival. “Particularly so with your mother in her grave, Grace. The truth was that my sister cut the button off my costume after I left the theater to marry Mr. Knowlton. She was always jealous of my greater success on the stage. You are mistaken about your mother’s connection to Ned, although correct in assuming a connection between the two buttons.” She held up her hand. “I shall explain. The theater has not always been a respectable place for young women. Some would say it still is not.” She glanced up at Percival. “Which reminds me, Percival. You must put a stop to Grace’s continued involvement. It is unwise, particularly in light of the current disturbances. The theater is not respectable for a decent married woman. I do not approve.”
“Please do not change the subject, Mama. You were speaking of Ned.”
“We had in our company a young woman who, by her actions, put the reputations of all of us at risk.”
“She had a child,” Grace said.
“Yes. And as you correctly surmised, Grace, this young woman—I forget her name—took one of the buttons from my costume. She must have pinned it to her baby’s blanket at the Foundling Hospital. Heartbreaking story, but not an unusual one. Mind you, I am distressed to learn that this Ned fellow had gotten hold of the button. I was under the impression that the governors of the hospital kept these tokens and the identities of the mothers a secret.”
“Do you know if the woman is still alive?” Grace asked.
“Of course not!” Augusta snapped. “When I left the theater to marry Percival’s father, I never had anything more to do with the stage. I am not like your mother, Grace. She regretted leaving. I did not. Now, I trust this explanation will relieve you of your anxieties. You are not related to Ned, and that is an end to it. The woman who bore him was an inferior actress and jealous of your mother and of me.” Augusta spoke with such calm assurance that Grace felt chilled to the bone. Nothing about the young woman’s pathetic fate appeared to distress her aunt in the slightest.
“I’ll have a word with Mr. Kemble,” said Percival. “Get him to dismiss Ned.”
“No!” Grace exclaimed. “Ned has done nothing wrong.”
“Leave the young man where he is. I’m sure he meant no harm.”
“If you wish, Mama. Well, Grace, there’s an end to it.”
“Quite right.” Augusta picked up the bell to ring for tea. “We will not speak of it again.” The expression on her face was perfectly serene, but Grace noticed that the hand holding the bell shook just enough to keep the bell tinkling for several seconds after she stopped ringing it.
Chapter 26
. . . we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Hamlet (4.5.41)
“Ned!”
The sound of Mr. Kemble’s voice snapped Ned to attention. He followed Mr. Kemble to his office and waited at the door while Mr. Kemble shuffled papers on his desk, his movements almost agitated.
“May I help, sir?” Ned asked.
“You heard about Brandon?”
“Yes, sir. He’s that upset about it.”
“Brandon has nothing to be ashamed of. It’s that blasted Clifford fellow who should be ashamed of himself—bringing trumped-up charges of false arrest against my box office keeper. Mr. Brandon should be commended for his actions, not made to answer to charges like a common criminal. By arresting Clifford, he was protecting the theater—my theater. Henry Clifford is a radical. People should be grateful that our box office keeper turned him over to the magistrates.”
“I believe, sir, that some people think of Mr. Clifford as the leader of the OPs.”
“Don’t say that loathsome abbreviation in my hearing! But yes, you are right. It’s no doubt because of the mob’s support that Mr. Henry Clifford, damn him, was released from custody so quickly. The magistrates haven’t the courage of their convictions.”
“Yes, sir.” Ned wished Mr. Kemble would hurry up and tell him why he was summoned. He needed to get backstage and make sure that Mr. Renfrew was ready for his entrance. That afternoon, he’d seen the actor enter his dressing room carrying a full bottle of rum.
“And now Clifford’s saying that Brandon laid hands on him unlawfully. Unlawful, is it? Clifford was causing a disturbance, and Brandon handled it.” Mr. Kemble picked up a newspaper, read it quickly, and then threw it back onto his desk. “God save me from these newspaper men. Now they are accusing me of being un-English. I, who have done so much for Britain! Listen to this fellow. He thinks I should suppress the very idea of private boxes, never mind the boxes themselves. And
do you know why?”
Ned shook his head.
“Because they are foreign! Can you imagine anything more absurd? No, you cannot, but listen anyway.” He began to read.
“The idea is not English. It is not consistent with that fair and honest equality, which our national character and temper have maintained, time out of mind, at our public places of amusement.
“What does he know about equality? My theater welcomes everyone!”
“Yes, sir. Did you want anything in particular, sir?”
“What? Oh, yes. I need you to take this list to the box office and tell Brandon to let in everyone on it. He’s to disburse the people in various places around the house—boxes, galleries, pit. He’ll know what to do.”
Ned carried the paper to Mr. Brandon’s office at the front of the theater. Mr. Brandon was a mild, inoffensive man—hardly the bullying demon that Mr. Clifford’s supporters made him out to be.
“Mr. Kemble wants these people to get in for free,” Ned said.
Mr. Brandon took the list. “Letting in more trouble, if you ask me.”
“Sir?”
“Things are getting out of hand, and we don’t have enough constables to make a blind bit of difference.” He shook his head. “At least I’ve learned my lesson and won’t be laying hands on any of them again.”
“Do you think Mr. Kemble should give in?” Ned asked.
“I do, but you didn’t hear me say it.” Mr. Brandon waved Ned away. “Go on with you. I’d better see to getting the doors open.”
Ned hurried along the corridor to the dressing rooms. In his pocket was the button given back to him by Grace. She told him that she’d been mistaken, that it was not a match for her mother’s button. Ned would keep what he knew to himself. If Grace’s mother had been one of those poor souls obliged to leave a part of herself at the Foundling Hospital, then he would not be the one to say anything more about it. The past was past, and it didn’t do any good to dwell on it.
* * *
The leaden November afternoon—a full two months since the start of the season and the riots—was fading as quickly as Grace’s resolve. A raindrop splashed onto the letter she held in her hand, smudging part of the return address but leaving the direction untouched. She stepped into the post office closest to the theater before she could change her mind.
Since coming away from Aunt Augusta’s house the previous Sunday, Grace had not been able to rid herself of the nagging suspicion that Aunt Augusta was not being truthful. Her explanation about another actress had been too quick, too glib. Was she trying to protect Grace’s mother and by extension herself?
Only one person—apart from Aunt Augusta—was likely to know the truth.
After posting the letter, Grace ran across the street to the theater. Out in the Piazza, a misty sun was trying to break through the clouds and blur the edges of the frenetic activities of carts and hawkers and stamping horses heading to the market. As usual, Mr. Harrison was sitting in his chair, one swollen leg propped on his footstool.
“Ah, Miss Green! You are early today.”
“I like to rehearse when the theater is still quiet.”
“Which it so rarely is these days, more’s the pity. You are on again as Juliet tonight? I heard good reports about the last time you played her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison. Perhaps I’ll be lucky and the crowd will pay attention.”
“These riots must stop soon,” he said. “Last night I heard that several OPs staged a mock fight in the pit.”
“I saw it from the wings. They also charged up and down the benches like a pack of hounds. These days, more action happens in the pit than on the stage.”
“Mr. Kemble must give in eventually.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“And I hope for your sake that the riots end before you appear as Desdemona next week.” Mr. Harrison’s eyes crinkled with delight at the look on her face.
“Pardon me?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Kemble himself told me. Seems you’re becoming quite the favorite, Miss Grace Green. Poor Louisa’s nose is out of joint, and she’ll likely give you a hard time, but I wouldn’t let that bother you. She was a disaster when she played Desdemona last week. Did you hear?”
“No. What happened?” Grace had been away from the theater the night poor Louisa—finally taken back in desperation by Mr. Kemble—had gone on in Othello to face one of the worst crowds since the start of the riots.
“It was Louisa’s bad luck that Mr. Clifford—he’s a lawyer and a right troublemaker—brought an action against Brandon for false arrest a few hours before her performance. The OPs had a field day, which put poor Louisa right off her game. She barely gasped when Mr. Cooke strangled her.”
Grace did not wish to benefit at Louisa’s expense, but to play Desdemona! She’d never even dared to hope.
“Kemble will likely give you the news himself this evening,” Mr. Harrison continued. “Are you pleased?”
“Yes! I’ve dreamed of playing Desdemona but never thought Mr. Kemble would pick me.”
“Kemble’s got an eye for talent.” Mr. Harrison peered up at her. “You have the look of someone I used to know. Did I never tell you that?”
“No, Mr. Harrison.”
“It’s no matter. Off you go, then.”
Grace wanted to laugh out loud as she stepped into the dark corridor. Desdemona! Instead of heading to the women’s dressing room, Grace turned left and made her way around the side of the auditorium to the main lobby. Her fingers slid through the slit in her skirt to touch the note from Mr. Renfrew that she’d received the night before. He wanted to meet her! She could tell him now about Desdemona. He’d become so supportive of her acting in the past weeks, often bolstering her spirits with his praise. From the lobby, Grace mounted the large central staircase past a statue of Shakespeare set on a carved porphyry pedestal. At the top of the stairs, she turned toward the lobby reserved exclusively for the patrons of the two tiers of boxes, her heart hammering from the climb and from excitement. She should not have come, and yet how could this flutter of lightness, this anticipation that made her skin tingle, be wrong? She walked rapidly through the lobby and entered the box closest to the stage. A glimmer of light from a few candles in the auditorium was enough to let her see the box’s luxurious interior—velvet curtains, gold tassels, thick pile rug, and chairs upholstered in light blue. She slipped her woolen scarf from her neck and shrugged off her cloak, letting it fall at her feet. What if Aunt Augusta’s story about the poor actress was a warning? What if the same thing happened to her? Grace bent to pick up her cloak and then paused. Her fate could never be the same. She was a married woman—and on her way to becoming an acclaimed actress. She was not some helpless young female with no prospects and no protection.
“Old Kemble’s not spared any expense up here, has he?”
Grace jumped at the sound of Renfrew’s voice so close behind her. He must have come up the stairs from the Piazza entrance and waited in a dark corner of the box lobby. Instead of turning to greet him, she walked forward to the edge of the box and peered down at the stage far below. In a few hours, angry patrons would fill the auditorium, while onstage she’d try again to captivate them with her Juliet.
“No, indeed,” Grace said without turning around. “I think we’ve always known that Mr. Kemble aspires to greatness both on and off the stage.”
“That he does.” Mr. Renfrew came to stand next to her. “But when all is said and done, Mr. Kemble is an actor. Only an actor. He will never be the equal of the men he tries to impress.”
“Do you include yourself in that description?” His breath was warm on her bare neck and smelled faintly of rum.
“Perhaps. I am a younger brother, Miss Green, with few prospects. My family would rather I was idle than be associated with the theater, but I was born for the stage.” He reached for her hand. “Like you were.”
His palm was soft and dry against her palm. She placed her other ha
nd on his arm. When she was with Percival, she waited and endured, ruthlessly keeping in check any twinges of fire in her belly. What would it feel like to give in willingly to a man?
He wrapped one arm around her waist and then with one swift movement drew her close. “All day I’ve existed in an agony of hope. I didn’t know if you’d meet me or not. And now here you are.”
“I . . .”
He kissed her—his lips hard against hers. She let herself melt into him, become a part of him. All her misgivings about meeting him dissolved.
He drew back. “We can’t. Not here.”
She made up her mind in an instant. “I know a place,” she said.
Chapter 27
Of all base passions fear is most accurs’d.
Henry VI, Part 1 (5.2.18)
Grace led Mr. Renfrew to the dressing room reserved for the exclusive use of Mrs. Siddons. Dust covered the dressing table, the costume rack was empty, and the sofa upon which Mrs. Siddons reclined between scenes was bare of pillows. Grace turned around to face Mr. Renfrew and in his earnest smile saw proof of his desire for her. He cared for her. Of course, he cared for her. It was enough.
Grace shivered in the cold room. She turned around again and leaned back into his arms. His lips parted against the bare skin of her neck. She was Juliet on her wedding night, Desdemona before the Moor accused her. Desire spread through her belly—new and forbidden and delicious.
His fingers stroked upward from her waist and stopped just short of the curve of her breasts. She exhaled the pleasure of promise in a long, low sigh.
“You are sure?” he whispered.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She half turned her face to his, searching for a kiss, but he was not looking at her.
He removed his hand from her breasts and fumbled at the buttons of his breeches. On the dressing table in front of Grace, the script for Macbeth lay open, the words close enough to read. Mr. Renfrew bumped against her, pushing her forward, his fingers still scrabbling at his crotch. A dull panic bloomed in her chest. To distract herself, she peered at the words but could make no sense of them in the dim light.
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