The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

  What was he doing? This was not how it was supposed to be. She should be transported by desire, by tenderness—love even. He muttered a curse. Buttons popped and bounced across the wooden floor like dried peas. Something hard prodded her from behind, nudging at her like an overexcited dog. She had to say something, tell him to stop, that she’d changed her mind. This was not love. Whatever he was doing had nothing to do with her. Percival had never taken her like this, like she had no more feelings than a stick of wood. He was always at least gentle.

  But before she could find words, Renfrew spun her around and hoisted her skirt. The wooden arm of the divan dug into her waist as he bent her back. He grunted, one hand moving up to her mouth, covering it so she could not cry out. She tried looking into his eyes, but they were closed, his mouth screwed with concentration.

  He took her quickly—much more quickly than Percival had ever done. A groan, a sigh, a stepping away, and then all she had to do was rearrange her skirt, her eyes on the floor, looking anywhere but at him.

  She heard Mr. Kemble calling for Ned out in the corridor. She crossed to the door and listened.

  “Grace?” Renfrew’s voice was soft now, contrite even.

  She waited for Mr. Kemble to pass, and then, without a backward glance at Thomas, she slipped out of the room and ran down the corridor to the dressing room she shared with the other actresses.

  * * *

  Ned rounded the corner into the corridor leading to Mrs. Siddons’s dressing room. He was preoccupied with thinking about the scenes and machinery needed for the evening performances—Romeo and Juliet first, followed by a farce. Grace would act Juliet for the second time opposite Mr. Charles Kemble, and Olympia was set to take a turn in the farce. Even considering the riots, Ned was feeling good about the evening ahead. Alec would come around one of these days—it’s not as if they hadn’t had rows before. Ned’s temper sometimes got the better of him, and as for Alec, his sharp tongue often put him on Ned’s bad side.

  Ned could have wished for an opportunity to talk with Olympia alone—find out the score with the general—but he was content to bide his time. He’d had plenty of practice being alone. A few more weeks or months wouldn’t make much difference.

  The door to Mrs. Siddons’s dressing room opened. What was this? No one was supposed to go into the great lady’s private space. When he’d spent one night there after having his forehead laid open by the rattle, Ned had hardly slept for worrying he’d be discovered. Mr. Kemble wouldn’t take kindly to his sister’s space being used without her knowing.

  A tall figure, blonde hair swept up, skirt crumpled, emerged into the corridor and turned toward the women’s dressing room. Ned flattened himself against the wall and waited, dreading to have his suspicions confirmed. Sure enough, moments later, Renfrew opened the door and stepped out.

  * * *

  As usual, the dressing room crackled with nervous chatter. Grace looked around for Olympia but couldn’t see her. She asked Louisa for a basin of water.

  “Ned’s not brought the water in yet.”

  “Where he is?”

  “Not here.” Louisa’s lips were scrunched together, tiny lines already radiating outward, numbering the years she had left to shine onstage. “What’s wrong with you? You’re that flushed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Grace found her costume on the rack and took it to a quiet corner of the room. She ripped at the ties of her soiled gown, dropped it to her feet, and stepped out. Her red velvet costume for the ballroom scene lay like a puddle of blood on the chair beside her. Where was Ned with the water? He always took care of them, made sure they had tea and soap and the right scripts for the right play. Ned was their support, their ally. They could not do without Ned.

  She could not do without Ned. He was her one constant every night at the theater. It was Ned who always made sure that Grace got her cues and knew where to stand. It was Ned who soothed her nerves as night after night the riots put everyone on edge. Grace knew what Ned thought of Mr. Renfrew. She should have trusted his judgment since obviously she could not trust her own. How could she have been so blind?

  Grace pulled the red gown up over trembling thighs and laced the bodice tightly over her breasts. She folded her hands across her belly and breathed deeply, pushing down the bitterness rising in her throat. In less than an hour, she would walk onstage, her head held high, her spine erect.

  She could do it. She had to do it.

  * * *

  Ned closed one hand over Renfrew’s mouth and with his other hand pushed him back into the dressing room. He slammed the door behind him with his heel. The room was pitch black with no candles lit, but Ned didn’t need light to do what needed doing.

  Renfrew squirmed like the rat he was.

  “Call out and I’ll snap yer neck.” Ned tightened his hold. “Stay away from Grace and all of the girls, you hear me? Or I’ll go to Kemble, and you’ll be out on yer duff.” He drew his hand from Renfrew’s mouth and then drove his fist into his stomach. Renfrew’s knees buckled, and his breath came out with a whoosh and a groan.

  “Don’t hit me,” he gasped. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Ned grabbed Renfrew by his collar and held him up so the toes of his boots just grazed the floor.

  “She asked for it,” he gasped. “They all ask for it. Whores, the lot of them.” Ned shook him again. “Olympia too. She’s a ripe one, she is.”

  In the darkness, Ned sensed Renfrew’s leer. Goddamn, snot-nosed toffs. Where did they get off thinking they could do whatever they wanted? Men like Renfrew ruled the world and kept men like Ned working for them, slaving their lives away, and for what? The chance to lick their bleedin’ boots?

  Ned put every ounce of his strength into connecting his open palm with Renfrew’s face. He would have liked to break the bastard’s jaw, but that would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. He’d need to explain to Mr. Kemble, and that was the last thing Ned wanted to do. The whack of skin on skin was obscenely loud and supremely satisfying. Ned let go of Renfrew’s collar, felt him glide like sand released from a ten-pound bag to the floor, heard his skull thud against the arm of Mrs. Siddons’s sofa.

  With any luck, Mr. Thomas Renfrew, rising star at the New Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, would need a full pot of paint to wipe away the mark of Ned’s hand on his cheek.

  Chapter 28

  Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war . . .

  Julius Caesar (3.1.273)

  Several days after Grace’s turn as Juliet, Olympia caught up with her just as she was entering the theater. It was another rainy November afternoon—the air a thick stew of coal smoke and damp. The weather matched Grace’s mood. Her timing in Romeo and Juliet had been off, her lines mumbled, her gestures wooden. For once, she’d been grateful for the rioters who barely regarded the stage while they went through their nightly rituals—OP dances and chants and songs and shouts.

  Both girls were to perform in the afterpiece that evening—a production of Don Juan that was scheduled to run for three more nights. Grace did not enjoy the piece, billed as a tragical-pantomimical ballet, but even with Louisa hired back on, the theater was short several actresses. Everyone had to pitch in.

  “We are early,” Olympia said when they reached the stage door. “Would you mind walking with me?”

  “In this?”

  “The rain does not signify.” Olympia looked up at Grace. “Please. We can stay under the arcade.”

  The two girls walked out into the Piazza and crossed to the east side where an arcade stretched all the way to the Strand. The covered space was crowded with strolling ladies and gentlemen, and a few Cyprians just emerged from the brothels to start their evening’s work. Even after almost two years in London, Grace was fascinated by the range and number of shops concentrated in this small area. They passed haberdashery shops and bookshops, dress shops and print shops, and of course several coffeehouses and taverns and tearooms.

  “You are quiet
, Olympia,” Grace said after they’d walked for several minutes.

  “As are you. We are not a lively pair today.”

  “Perhaps we are both just fatigued by the riots.” Grace said. She knew that was not the reason for her own feeling of lassitude, but she was curious what was bothering Olympia. “Your mother is well?”

  “My mother.” Olympia sighed. “Oh, Grace, I don’t know what to do!”

  “Good heavens, Olympia. What is this?”

  “You know that my mother lived quite openly with the general.”

  “I was aware, but that does not reflect on you, Olympia. You cannot be blamed for your mother’s actions.”

  “My mother wishes to return to the general. Although he is not kind to her, she has grown accustomed to the luxuries that he provides and that I cannot with my pay from the theater. My only hope of keeping my mother away from the general is to marry a wealthy man.”

  “They are rather in short supply at the theater,” Grace said drily.

  “I was engaged to be married this past summer, you know, to a respectable-enough man, but he broke it off when he found out I’d been an actress. He all but called me a harlot. It’s why I came back.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Olympia laughed bitterly. “I was marrying him for my mother’s sake. Love played no role in my acceptance.”

  Grace kept silent.

  “Forgive me,” Olympia said. “I should not burden you with my problems.” She brightened her tone and skipped forward a few steps to the window of a shop selling sweetmeats. “See here, Grace. My favorite bonbons! We both deserve a treat.”

  Grace followed Olympia into the shop. She wanted to ask her about Ned but didn’t dare. If Olympia’s mother needed her to marry well, then Ned could have no role in Olympia’s future.

  By the time they returned to the theater, both girls were in better spirits and ready to take on another evening playing in dumb show to the angry crowd. Mr. Harrison was as usual seated in his chair when they crowded, laughing, through the stage door. He rose stiffly to his feet.

  “Ned’s taken off,” he said bluntly.

  “What do you mean?” Olympia asked. “Where would he go?”

  “He came in an hour or so back. There was a letter for him brought by Alec—he used to work here? The direction looked like it was written by a woman.”

  “Who would write to Ned?”

  “That’s just the thing. He went all pale when he read it and then rushed out.”

  “Do you have the note?”

  “What? No. I just got a glimpse of the writing on the envelope before Ned balled it up in his hand. I didn’t see what he did with it. He just said he was gone to meet a woman and that he’d be back before the play went up.” Mr. Harrison shook his head. “Mr. Kemble won’t like Ned not being here to get everything organized backstage.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Grace said. “You know Ned. He’d never abandon us. You can be certain he’ll be back within the hour.”

  She couldn’t exactly say why, but Ned’s sudden absence from the theater made her uneasy. If the note was written by a woman, Grace couldn’t help thinking it might have something to do with her Aunt Augusta.

  * * *

  Even the driving rain could not squelch the stink rising from the river. Ned stopped to get his bearings. Rigging slapped masts that creaked in the wind. He had never ventured so far south and east of Covent Garden. The gaiety and lights of the Piazza might as well belong to another country. All around him loomed soot-blackened, tightly shuttered houses. The gloom suffocated his resolve, the river stench overpowering. How did people live here?

  Ahead, a single torch lit a hanging sign. The crudely drawn anchor reassured Ned. At least he was in the right place. The play—a farce called The Suspicious Husband—was scheduled to start in three hours, which meant he had just enough time to meet the woman and then get back to the theater in time to get everyone to their places. Ned reached the door to the tavern and pushed it open. The person who wrote the note must want money. Why else would she contact him after so long? He knew he should stay well away, but he couldn’t bring himself to pass up the chance to meet the woman who had borne him, even if she’d cast him off like he was no more use than a rotten apple ground into the soiled hay on the market floor. He could at least give her a few shillings and send her on her way.

  He expected to find the tavern alive with light and noise. Instead, he walked into darkness. Something scuttled past his foot, and his throat closed around a mouthful of stale air. Panic gripped him—his old fear of the dark. He was ten years old again and trapped in a coal bin where he’d lain for hours before being found. His breath came in loud gasps. He had to get out! But before he had a chance to turn around, the door slammed hard against his back. Blackness pressed against his eyes like cold steel.

  He held out his hands, clutched at air, gulped back another ragged breath, and then bit his tongue. He remembered how coal dust had coated every part of his body, how his eyes had stung with it. There was no coal dust here—only the reek of the river. And he was no longer a child.

  Something hard smashed the back of his knees. His legs gave way and he slumped forward, banging his forehead against slimy floorboards. He just had time to realize that he’d been tricked, when a brush of fur whisked past his cheek, and he passed out.

  * * *

  It was the clink of coins that woke Ned up. Someone was shifting them from one hand to the other.

  “He’s a big one. I’ll need help.”

  “You’ll manage fine on your own. He’s out cold and his arms tied good and tight. Drag him by the legs. It ain’t far.”

  “It’s far enough.” The second voice was higher than the first and sounded sulky, like the dragging of a body was an imposition.

  “You’ve got your man, so stop your griping. It ain’t my lookout that you didn’t bring more muscle with you. The tide’s high now. You’d best go while you can.”

  A hand closed around Ned’s ankle and pulled. Ned kept his eyes shut. His head throbbed, and bright flashes pierced the darkness under his eyelids. He was facing upward, with his hands bound behind his back, the knuckles grinding into the floorboards.

  “I can’t drag him on me own.” The voice rose higher. “You got to help me.”

  “I ain’t got to do nothing.”

  To Ned’s relief, the floor vibrated with the clumping of feet heading for the door. With the big one out of the way, he’d easily take the peevish-sounding one. Ned pulled against the ropes around his wrists. The knots held like bolts of frozen iron. He knew he had to use his legs.

  “I’ll pay extra. Another shilling if you’ll help me drag him to the boat.”

  Ned held his breath. Feet shuffled, and the man closest to the door coughed and spat. “I gotta be somewhere else.”

  “It won’t take long. You said yerself the dock’s close by. If we both take a leg, we’ll have him there in no time.”

  “You ever feel bad about it?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “This. You know, takin’ men against their will, like?”

  “Nah. The King’s Navy needs ’em to fight this blasted war. Think of it as doin’ your patriotic duty.”

  “Fair enough. Make it two shillings.”

  Ned gritted his teeth. If he didn’t move now, he’d never get free. He opened his eyes. In the light from a guttering candle, he glimpsed a dark figure at the door and another close to his feet. With a grunt, he pulled back one leg and drove it upward, connecting foot to groin with every ounce of his strength. A scream ripped through the empty room. Ned slammed down both feet and heaved himself to his knees. His bound arms unbalanced him, but with an immense effort, he got first one foot and then the other under his body and stood up. He towered over both men. The man he’d kicked lay on the floor, his screams as shrill as a woman’s. The other man lurched forward, both arms outstretched to grab Ned. He dodged out of the way and then ki
cked at the man’s kneecap. Alec had always said to go for the kneecaps.

  “They drop like a stone. Never fails.”

  The man staggered backward but did not go down. Ned drove his shoulder into the man’s head, snapping his neck back. He was a free man, by God. The King’s Navy could go hang.

  The screams from the man on the floor subsided to gasping whimpers. “Bastard!” he gasped. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

  Ned threw his whole body at the man at the door. “Out of my way!”

  To his surprise, the man stepped aside. “Be my guest.”

  Ned kicked at the door, but it did not even shudder against the iron latch keeping it closed. He tried nudging at the latch with one shoulder, but he was too tall. The ropes binding his wrists ground through his flesh to the bone. The men he’d injured would kill him if he didn’t get out. His body would be thrown into the Thames, another casualty of the war, regretted only because he’d died before being of use on the high seas.

  “You can rest easy,” the man called to the man still on the floor. “He’ll not get out.”

  “Hurt him!”

  “I intend to.”

  Ned had a second to wonder whether he’d die on the point of a knife or with his brains smashed across the thick walls, when the world went black again.

  Chapter 29

  But He that hath the steerage of my course

  Direct my sail!

  Romeo and Juliet (1.4.112–13)

  “Ma’am?”

  A short man wearing a torn jacket and with a half-healed cut slashed across a dirty cheek stepped in front of Grace as she was coming out of the theater at the end of the evening. Alarmed, she backed up against the stage door.

  “What is it?”

  “Name’s Alec, ma’am. I used to work here? Friend of Ned’s? We ain’t never been properly introduced, like, but you stayed in my room?”