“Yes, of course,” Grace said, relieved. “I should have thanked you long since. Do you know where Ned went? He didn’t come into the theater tonight, and we are all worried.”
“You and him are friends, right?”
“Yes, Ned has always been kind to me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Ned, innit? But begging your pardon, ma’am, I don’t know who else to tell. I can’t go to Mr. Kemble. He don’t approve of me, see. Thing is, I’ve done somethin’ bad, ma’am, and now Ned’s in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a falling out, him and me, and I got mad, you know? I went and took money from Mr. Renfrew to bring this note here for Mr. Harrison to give to Ned.”
Grace wanted to reach out and shake the little man. “What does Mr. Renfrew have to do with anything?”
“He’s got it in for Ned, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He said Ned deserved what was comin’ to him, see. And on account of me also bein’ mad, I helped him.”
“Please just tell me, Alec. You’re not making any sense.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Beggin’ yer pardon, but the note what Ned got? He thinks it’s come from her. I was watchin’ when he came out of the theater. He threw the note away, but I picked it up. See?” He held up a crumpled ball of paper.
“What are you talking about, Alec? Who do you think wrote the note?”
“His mother, like.”
“But that’s impossible. Ned’s mother is dead.”
“You know about her?”
“Yes, I mean no.” Grace took the balled-up paper from Alec but did not look at it. “Why are you coming to me?”
“I got to make things right with Ned, ma’am. Soon as he took off, I started to worry that he might be walkin’ into a trap. That Mr. Renfrew’s a right son of a bitch.”
“But you took his money.”
“I ain’t proud of it. I followed Ned, see, down to the river, to a tavern, and I saw right away that he weren’t meeting no woman. They took him, ma’am. To the boats. A press-gang, right? Renfrew must have paid them. People do, you know—pay to have people taken? I couldn’t do nothin’ to stop them.” Alec nodded at the note that Grace held in her hand. “Please, ma’am. Can you help?”
Grace smoothed the paper out. Carefully looped handwriting, as crafted and controlled as the hand that penned it, covered hot-pressed notepaper that smelled faintly of lavender. Grace leaned against the side of the building to steady herself.
“Ma’am! You’re that pale.”
* * *
“I have an idea.” Grace grasped her husband’s arm. “You’re about to take on your first starring role, Percival.”
“This is not the time for riddles, my dear.”
“We must get to the theater.”
“It’s the middle of the night!”
“Alec can get us in.” She turned to Alec, who was standing, hat in hand, in the vestibule of Grace’s home in Bedford Square. She’d run with Alec all the way from the theater through streets glistening with a recent rain. “You can do that, can’t you, Alec?”
“I ain’t got no key.”
“Oh!” Grace’s face fell.
“But that don’t mean I ain’t got my ways.” Alec’s gaze swiveled from Grace to Percival. “What’s the theater got to do with anything? We should go to the magistrates.”
“They turn a blind eye to this sort of thing,” Percival said. “It is unfortunate, but impressment is used all too often to dispose of someone without actually killing them.” His cheeks, normally pink with an excess of good wine, had drained, leaving him looking much older than five and twenty. He stared down at the note he still held in his hand.
Grace held her breath. At first, he’d laughed off the connection to his mother. Absurd notion. How could Grace think such a thing? Then, she’d held the paper to the light, made him stop and look until finally he saw the truth.
Percival crumpled the note into a ball and threw it toward the fire. “What do you have in mind, Grace?”
“We’re going to raid the costumes at the theater,” Grace said, masking her relief by pulling open the front door. “And we don’t have much time.”
“Let me send for a carriage.”
But Grace wasn’t listening. She descended the steps to the street and set off in the direction of the theater. Percival ran to catch up with her, Alec close behind. She did not speak until they reached the Bow Street entrance.
“You’re sure you can get us in?” she asked Alec.
“Anything for a lady,” Alec said as he drew a looped piece of wire from his pocket and bent over the padlock that secured the stage door.
“He’s a criminal!” Percival whispered. “What have you gotten me into?”
“Alec knows where they took Ned.”
Percival stepped away from the door. “I can’t be a party to this.”
A soft click stopped him. Alec pushed open the door and disappeared into the darkness.
“Please, Percival, you can’t turn your back on Ned, not if there’s a chance your mother wrote that note.”
Before Percival could reply, Alec appeared at the door, holding aloft a lit candle.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“Mr. Kemble’s dressing room.”
“You can’t go in there!”
“He’ll never know.” Grace pushed Alec forward. She’d already violated Mrs. Siddons’s dressing room; she might as well make it a family affair. “Lead the way, please.” She heard Percival muttering under his breath, but she ignored him. Alec led them down the dark corridor.
“Find something military,” she said as soon as they entered the room. “A uniform of some sort, the more ribbons and braid the better. Thank goodness Percival is as tall as Mr. Kemble.”
“Right you are.” Alec set to work rummaging through the extensive collection of costumes hanging from the rack along the wall. As the public rightly suspected, no expense was spared to ensure that when Mr. Kemble did get onstage, he wore only the finest materials.
“What are you playing at, Grace?” Percival asked.
“Trust me.” She felt all the resolve of a Lady Macbeth at that moment—strong, determined, capable.
“How ’bout this?” Alec held up a dark blue jacket complete with epaulets and naval insignia. “There’s a hat that goes with it.” He tossed the jacket at Percival’s feet and then produced a fine admiral’s hat dripping with gold braid.
“You cannot seriously believe . . .?”
“I can,” Grace said. “And it’s the least you can do.”
“But . . .”
“You know I’m right, Percival. Ned would not be in this trouble if it weren’t for your mother. He’s done nothing to deserve it.”
“Am I responsible for my mother’s actions?”
“Would you have only Ned pay for them?”
“But why would she do this? It makes no sense.”
“It apparently makes sense to your mother. You can be sure that I plan to visit her very soon, but in the meantime, we cannot waste time.” Grace held Percival’s gaze with as much composure as she could muster.
The quality of mercy is not strained.
“You can do this, Percival. You have a chance to help.”
“So you think Ned is—?”
“I don’t know, Percival, but obviously, your mother does. I am sorry, but I believe her capable even of this.”
A spasm passed over Percival’s face—the shadow of a pain he’d never shared with her. Grace’s heart softened. Percival also could not be faulted for the sins of a parent.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Alec?”
Grace kept her eyes on Percival as he pulled off his coat and reached down for Mr. Kemble’s jacket. His white linen shirt clung to a broad chest tapering to a lean waist. Grace turned away quickly to find Alec staring at her.
“We got to hurry.”
“We’re ready.” Grace turned back
to Percival, who was pulling on a pair of high leather boots to replace his buckled shoes. She reached up to adjust his collar and then impulsively kissed him on the mouth—the first time she’d ever done so voluntarily.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
With a mocking curve of his full lips still wet from Grace’s kiss, he stepped back and executed an exaggerated military salute.
“King’s Navy at your service, ma’am.”
* * *
The floor was moving, a soft rocking that made his rise to awareness a slow, gradual, calming journey. For several minutes, Ned drifted with the rhythm of the floor, the creaking timbers a comfort, like he was safe inside a swaying carriage taking him back to the theater where he’d watch Olympia onstage. He loved the way she played the comic roles and was only sorry the crowd was too preoccupied with the cursed riots to appreciate her.
The stink of sickness and urine and sour beer brought him to the truth. He kept his eyes closed rather than acknowledge it, but the truth will out. He remembered that line from The Merchant of Venice. He’d watched a rehearsal just that afternoon. The play was to go up on the eighth of December, if he remembered correctly—a good two weeks hence. Dates and plays and angry men swirled through his brain. Where was he? His fear of darkness wrapped around him, choking him. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend that light still existed. The floor lurched under him. He slit his eyes open, praying as he did that his suspicions were wrong.
They were not.
He was in the hold of a ship—an anchored ship that rose and fell with the flow of the river. His cheek rested against something prickly but yielding—a bale of hay by the smell of it. For the horses? Did the navy keep horses in the hold? Ned listened for the sound of hooves against wooden floorboards but heard only scraping wood and a whistling that must have been the wind. He felt it on his bare head and neck. The bastards had taken his scarf. Frozen air swirled down through an opening above him. Could he see the stars? No, it had been raining when he’d come to the river. There would be no stars and no moon—just the heavy wet skies of a dark November night.
How long had he been in the ship? He remembered the clink of coins and the smash of a fist against his jaw. That must have been not long after three in the afternoon, when he’d arrived at the tavern. But he thought that a great deal more time must have passed. Apart from the sounds of the ship and the wind, Ned heard only the deep silence of the dead hours after midnight when the world slept. He’d loved that silence ever since he’d started working at the theater. Every night when he locked the stage door behind him and walked down the empty street, he sensed everywhere around him, for miles in all directions, the thousands and thousands of souls in the great city of London joined in the oblivion of sleep.
“Sir!”
The voice came from the opening above him. Heavy boots pounded on the deck. Ned pulled at his wrists. They were still bound, and now his feet as well. He lay on his side but was still able to turn his head.
“Stand aside, man. I’ve orders from the admiral.”
“What admiral? Say! You can’t come on board without permission.”
The flare of a torch washed across the opening, reddening the sky. Ned was surprised at how close he was to the deck—no more than ten feet. It was a small ship, not one of the navy’s warships.
“Yer wantin’ to take it up with the admiral?”
Ned knew the rough cockiness of that voice—had grown with it from child to boy to man. He would have smiled if he had not been so terrified.
Chapter 30
Men should be what they seem;
Or those that be not, would they might seem none!
Othello (3.3.130–31)
The reedy voice of the guard up on deck sounded close enough for Ned to strangle. “Who’s this admiral you’re talking about? I ain’t seen no admiral. They don’t come around at this time of night.”
“This one does. See?”
Ned heard a quiet bump against the side of the ship, waves slapping—another, smaller boat. What was Alec doing?
“He’s come straight from the Admiralty to sort out the mistake.”
“What mistake? What are you talking about, man? I can’t see nobody.”
“Sir!” Alec’s voice calling down to the water held just the right touch of subservience. Ned had heard him speak like that to Mr. Kemble while abusing him behind his back.
“What’s going on, man?” The voice that shouted back sounded familiar, but Ned could not place it. He was definitely a nob with the entitled tone of someone accustomed to getting his own way. One of the actors? He couldn’t imagine Alec convincing any of them to come on a rescue mission. Ned almost laughed at the thought of Mr. Kemble getting his white stockings dirty on London’s East End docks.
“Sorry, sir. I ain’t being allowed aboard.”
“Ho! You there. Let my man on deck and do what he asks, or there will be hell to pay for you.”
“I ain’t got no orders.”
To Ned, the guard sounded young and inexperienced. Very likely, he’d drawn the short straw to get saddled with graveyard duty. That he was alone on the deck was also a surprise, although Ned wasn’t about to question Providence.
“There’s been a mistake. You’ve taken on a man the government has an interest in.”
“What interest?”
“None of your business, lad. I know the man I want is in the hold. I’ll have him out in a jiffy, and we’ll be on our way. The Admiralty will make sure you get commended.”
Ned could almost hear the wheels turning in the young guard’s brain. Footsteps clumped to the edge of the ship, the torch going with them, leaving behind a black expanse of sky.
“You can see his hat, man,” Alec said. “Is that the uniform of a skivvy?”
There was a long silence while, presumably, the guard peered down at the boat bobbing on the river below. Ned could imagine Alec getting ready to fight the guard if he had to, but more than willing to talk himself out of trouble. He hoped Alec had armed himself with something more useful than a wooden stage sword.
“What’s your name, sir?” the guard called down.
There was a slight pause, and then the deep voice rang out into the night. “Green. Admiral Green. Now fetch the man we’ve come for, and we’ll be off. I’ve got to be back at the Admiralty by dawn.”
Green? Ned strained to hear more.
“I ain’t never heard of you.” The boy might not get far in the world on brains, but he certainly didn’t lack persistence.
“That’s it, then. I’ll have your name, lad,” shouted the posh voice. “Come on, out with it.”
“Hawkins, sir. Gerald Hawkins.”
“Right, Hawkins. I’ll let the Admiralty know that when faced with your duty, you shirked it. Alec? Come on down. I’ll direct the constables to come around in the morning.”
“What? No! Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
The torch flared again across the top of the opening. Ned heaved himself to his knees.
“Ho! You there!” Alec called down. A rope ladder dropped into the hold and a minute later, Alec landed next to Ned, winked a greeting, and then cut the ropes binding his wrists.
“My ankles too.”
“Got ’em.” Alec leaned forward. “Sorry, mate. Shouldn’t never have left you.”
“Yer here now.”
Ned climbed up the ladder to the deck. The young guard’s face loomed out of the darkness. He grasped a heavy boat hook with shaking hands. Alec followed Ned onto the deck and then stepped around him to face the guard. “Yer can put that down, lad. I’ve got me man now.”
The guard backed away, his hands still gripping the boat hook. “I shouldn’t let you go.” His voice cracked from low to high.
Alec motioned with one hand for Ned to get behind him to the side of the ship. “We’ll be gone before yer know it. Put down the hook. There’s a good lad.”
Ned swung himself over the side an
d down a rope ladder to the small boat. He dropped the last few feet, landing in front of a tall man holding a torch—Grace’s husband.
“Evening,” the man said pleasantly. “Percival Knowlton at your service. We have met before through my wife.” He talked as if the two men were sharing a cigar after dinner instead of struggling to keep their balance in a small boat bobbing on the river. Ned could just make out the outline of an overlarge hat—from Mr. Kemble’s private stock, he realized with a start.
“Grace sent you?”
“I suppose you could put it that way, although I prefer to believe that I came of my own volition.” Mr. Knowlton elegantly lowered himself onto a narrow seat in the stern of the boat. “I suggest we get going, or shove off I believe is the expression. We’ve been fortunate to find and liberate you while it is still dark.”
The man was as cool as Mr. Kemble. What was it with the swells? Did they ever get riled? “We got to wait for Alec.”
Percival raised his voice. “Are you coming, man? We’ve no time to waste.”
A muffled cry from above was followed by the crash of something metal against the wooden railing. A wash of moonlight broke through the heavy clouds. The hull of the ship and two figures struggling on the deck jumped into view as if they were on the fully lit stage. Alec shouted at the young guard to let go of the hook and then lunged for him. He was a good head shorter than the guard, but Ned had no doubt Alec would get the better of him. He’d fought and won against many much larger opponents.
“What’s he doing?” Percival asked. “I told him before that we must avoid violence at all costs. That was the purpose of this ridiculous getup.”
“Hush!”
“I say! You needn’t take that tone with . . .”
The boat hook— a wicked curve of sharpened steel set in a sturdy wooden handle—sailed over the edge of the deck. Ned lunged forward to catch it, was close enough to feel the rush of air across his hand. Then he heard a thud and a scream just as Alec dropped into the boat.
“Row, man!” Alec yelled.
Ned grabbed an oar, although never in his life had he used one. The small boat swung wildly back and forth, bumping against the hull of the ship, the oarlocks clattering.
The Muse of Fire Page 26