“Wait! I’ll take the other one. We got to pull together.”
Alec fell next to Ned onto the board laid across the middle of the boat. “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Right, then. Hold on while I turn her. We’re going against the current, so it will be hard pulling.”
“I’m ready.” Ned was at least grateful that his arms and shoulders had not been injured by the brutes who took him. The image of Olympia sent warmth through his frozen limbs. His fingers curled around the oar, and on Alec’s command, he pulled. His greater strength swung the boat again, but he knew enough now to ease off and match his rhythm with Alec’s.
“Steady on, Ned. We’ve got to keep her straight.”
“He’s in a bad way,” Ned said, cocking his head back to where Knowlton lay slumped in the stern.
“We got no choice but to row. It ain’t far.”
Ned leaned forward and then pulled back, forward and back, the strokes finally matching Alec’s. Ned shut his eyes and grunted with the effort of rowing upriver against the current. How much longer? And when they got to the dock, could they get back through London’s dark streets in time?
A moan whispered across the splash of oars on water. He still lived. Ned thought of Grace, her face shining with excitement when she came offstage. She’d sent her husband to find him. Why would she do that?
“We’re close, man. A few more pulls.”
The prow of the little boat ground against a low dock. Alec leaped out and tied the boat, while Ned scrambled on his hands and knees to the stern. In the darkness, Ned could not see any wound, but he smelled blood and heard Knowlton’s shallow breathing.
“We got you, sir. Just a bit longer and you’ll be home.”
“Grace.” The word slid across a breath that ended in a sob. Gone was the haughty tone, leaving behind a man like any man.
* * *
“Forgive me.”
Grace laid her hand across Percival’s and smiled down at him—perhaps the first genuine smile she’d ever favored him with. “Hush, Percival. Alec’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”
“Alec?” A wry smile brought back the old Percival. “Good man, that. And Ned too. Hadn’t expected it.” He winced and cried out. When the spasm of pain passed, he panted, his eyes wet with tears.
“You must stay quiet.”
“I’ll soon have more than enough quiet, my dear.”
Another jolt of pain stiffened his limbs, and he grabbed for her hand. His fingers wrapped around hers, still with enough strength to hurt her, although he’d never yet raised his hand to her. Had it ever been in her power to hurt him?
“Grace!”
“Please, Percival, you must not exert yourself.”
“I will be quiet soon, but please promise me something.”
“Of course, anything.”
“I have not been a good husband to you.”
She did not reply. The lines of pain on her husband’s face, the glittering of eyes staring at death shamed her. From now on, she must try to be a wife to Percival.
“You are right to stay silent. I deserve no more.” He raised his hand a few inches, but the effort was too much. He dropped it back to the bed. “I want you to be happy, Grace.”
“I am content enough.”
“You do not need to lie, Grace. Accord me one last courtesy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?” He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain shuddered through his body. “Blast it, Grace,” he gasped. “The pain is severe.”
Grace laid the back of her free hand on his brow. It was burning with fever. Her husband’s handsome face slackened, his grip on her hand suddenly boneless.
“Percy!”
She laid her head against his chest. She would not let him die. The beating of his heart—if it did beat—was stifled by his thick coat still damp with rain. It was not right for him to die wearing Mr. Kemble’s costume. With a frenzy of renewed energy, she seized the lapels of his coat and heaved. Grace tugged one arm of the coat, exposing a white shirt splashed with blood. She pulled at the sleeve of Percival’s other arm. She would not let him die in his coat. It wasn’t decent.
A hoarse whisper stopped her.
“Grace.”
“Yes, Percival,” she said, keeping her voice calm, the relief of hearing his voice again so powerful that it shocked her.
“See to it that Ned’s taken care of.”
“You can see to it yourself. You’re not going to die. The wound is not so deep.” She had no idea if that was true, but the fact that he’d regained consciousness was cause for hope. She peeled back his shirt. Alec had said something about a boat hook dropped from the deck of a ship. The hook appeared to have broken the soft skin of Percival’s neck, by a fluke just missing an artery.
“Bring water and towels,” she said without looking up.
“The surgeon will be here soon, ma’am.” Betsy stood very close, her breath coming in short gasps.
“I can attend to my husband in the meantime. Go!”
Percival tried to smile and then winced. “You’ve never spoken of me so warmly.”
“You’ve never been skewered by a boat hook before.”
His chest trembled beneath her touch. “You are cruel to make me laugh.”
“At least you still can.” She dabbed at the blood. The injury was nasty, to be sure. Although the skin was punctured, it was a shallow, clean wound.
He would not die.
Chapter 31
Let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Macbeth (4.3.228–29)
The property room at the New Theatre was more of a cupboard than a room, but when Grace was not waiting in the wings for her cue, she sometimes went there to get away from the noise of the riots. She loved the jumbled variety of objects crammed into the small space.
For the fifth time since September, Grace was playing Lady Anne in Richard III. She was already becoming associated with the role, which suited her well enough, although she would much prefer having sole rights to Juliet or Desdemona. But once the riots ended—if they ever did—Grace might not be able to hold on to any of the roles she’d been given in the absence of Mrs. Siddons.
She put her hands on her hips and stretched her shoulders back as she gazed around the room. A dozen or so swords of varying lengths and hefts hung above a stack of muskets and next to three enormous ash cudgels. One shelf spilled over with purses containing counterfeit money and jewels for using at opportune times in various plays, particularly the farces. From the ceiling hung a guitar with two strings missing and a drum, its sticks protruding from one side. Other shelves contained untidy heaps of artificial flowers and fruit, several large goblets, a bunch of skeleton keys, a jumble of half-burned candles, two sets of dice, and an iron cauldron. Grace smiled as she remembered the poor girls who had played the witches on the first night of the riots. The cauldron had not been used since that production of Macbeth. She wondered when it would be again. Various small props were piled on a table—scissors, oversize quill pens, two daggers, three pairs of convict fetters, and two decks of playing cards.
The evening was the first on which she’d left Percival since his injury four days earlier. The surgeon had warned her that his recovery would be a long one, but that her husband was, so far as he could tell, out of danger.
“Grace? I thought I might find you here.”
She didn’t move. Her heart pounded at the sound of Renfrew’s voice. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since they’d been together in Mrs. Siddons’s room—and since Ned’s abduction. She still didn’t know exactly what part Mr. Renfrew had played or why. She kept her back to him. Perhaps if she didn’t respond, he’d return to his dressing room and leave her alone. She had just one more scene to play before she’d be finished for the evening and free to get home to Percival. His forehead had been slightly hot before she’d left for the theater, and to her surprise, she fe
lt anxious about him.
“Grace?” Renfrew snaked one arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. Thick, wet lips found her neck. “Where have you been these past few days? I heard a rumor about Ned and a press-gang. Shame they didn’t get him.”
Grace tried to wrench herself away, but his grip on her tightened—his arm like a band of iron under her breasts, grinding her stays into her flesh.
“I don’t like being ignored, Grace.” He loosened his grip and pulled her around to face him. His breath stank like he’d been drinking gin for days. With one hand, he pushed the door to the property room closed. “You weren’t so shy the other day.”
She couldn’t breathe. The room pulsed with the detritus of theatrical life—everything designed for illusion, as false as the man who held her. If she cried out, someone backstage might hear her. Perhaps Ned would walk by. Her cue wouldn’t come for another twenty minutes. If she could loosen Renfrew’s grip on her, she could grab hold of one of the cudgels and bang at the door.
“I said that I don’t like being ignored,” he said, his lips now grazing her cheek. She shuddered with revulsion, every muscle rigid.
“Let me go,” she said. “My cue is coming up.”
“As is mine, but we have many minutes yet, long enough, I’m thinking, to renew our friendship.”
“My husband was injured trying to rescue Ned.”
“Your husband? You weren’t very concerned about him the last time we met.”
“You’re hurting me.” Her voice sounded thin and frightened in the darkness. “I’m sorry if you think . . .”
“Think what, my dear? That you wanted it as much as I did? You pretend to be so high and mighty—no doubt believing you’re destined to be the next Mrs. Siddons. The Tragic Muse. There’s a laugh. You’re nothing compared to her. Never will be.” He tightened his hold, digging the fingers of one hand into her waist while with the other hand he stroked her cheek. “But I can talk with Mr. Kemble, convince him to give you more leading roles, even when these blasted riots are over. Old Kemble listens to me.” He thrust his hips against her. “You won’t be the first to use your charms to get to the top.” He moved his hand down to fumble at the neckline of her black velvet costume. “You can stop pretending you’re not wanting what I have to offer and help me get this damn dress off.”
Grace tried to step away, but the edge of the table stopped her. She reached back and curled her fingers around the hilt of one of the daggers, feeling as filthy as Renfrew smelled. The dagger was made of wood and would not do much damage, but it was her only chance.
She expected to feel fear, but the only emotion gripping her was pure, cold rage. First her father, then that man in the street, and now Renfrew? With one swift movement, she brought the dagger up and plunged the blunt tip into the soft skin under Renfrew’s chin. At the same time, she raised one foot and drove it into his shin, and then thrust her forehead forward and down to connect with his nose. A sharp crack sounded like thunder in the small room. She remembered overhearing two of Kemble’s pugilists boasting about how to take down the rioters.
“The nose be the most sensitive part, don’t ye know.”
“Smash yer fist up.”
“Or better yet, yer elbow.”
“Now yer talkin’.”
Grace felt something spray across her face. With a scream, Renfrew let go of her and scrabbled at his nose. She backed toward the door and pushed it open with her shoulder.
“If you touch me again, I’ll go straight to Mr. Kemble,” she said.
“He’ll never believe you.”
“Yes, Mr. Renfrew, he’ll believe me.” In the flickering light from the corridor, Grace saw thin streams of blood leaking between his fingers. “I can assure you that Mr. Kemble will be very interested in what I can tell him about you.”
She stepped out into the corridor. The roars and catcalls and trumpets and rattles of the rioters competed as usual with the actors onstage. One of the callboys rushed past, carrying a metal fire box almost as big as he was. She smelled the pungent mixture of substances that were ignited in the box to produce the fire effect—a brilliant red light that bathed the stage in an eerie pink glow during the ghost scene. After the effect was completed, a callboy used a bucket of water to douse the flames and kill the noxious smell.
Grace followed the boy carrying the metal box to the wings and watched as he helped another boy hoist it seven feet high and then stood ready with a lighted taper for the cue. Fixing her attention on the boy and his task helped tamp down the shaking in her legs. Where was Ned? She had to look a right mess. With her wide sleeve, she scrubbed at the specks of Renfrew’s blood that had sprayed across her face. It would have to do. Several minutes later, another callboy called her cue, and she trudged back onstage for her final scene with the sleeping Richard. On the other side of the stage, Mr. Renfrew, as the ghost of Lord Hastings, lurched on, his face still streaked with blood. Since his character was meant to be a ghost, no one in the audience was likely to notice the blood—or care if they did.
Grace had never felt more like a ghost herself as she delivered her final speech. The noise in the pit surged and receded—waves on a beach sucking the heart from the play. As soon as she came offstage, Grace fled down the corridor to the dressing room. She quickly discarded her costume, then pulled on her gown and took up her cloak. Never in her life had she wanted more to go home.
Mr. Harrison was snoozing in his chair by the stage door. Grace tiptoed past him and was almost to the door when he called to her.
“You are not hurt, my dear?”
She froze. How could he know? Had Mr. Renfrew already passed by Mr. Harrison and left the theater? What lies had he told about her?
“I am perfectly well, Mr. Harrison, thank you.” She turned to face him.
To her surprise, he leaned forward and took her hand. “Take care, my dear,” he said. “Young ladies such as yourself . . . let’s just say that the theater can be a cruel place. Go home to your husband.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” She pulled her hand away. “Will you help me find a carriage?”
Mr. Harrison grimaced as he heaved himself to his feet. “Of course, my dear. Follow me.”
* * *
“Damn the fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Kemble.
“Sir?”
“Renfrew. He’s gone and left us in the lurch. He was to appear in The Roman Father tonight, and now I’ll have to get Cooke to do it. It appears that Renfrew’s high-and-mighty sister has decided that the theater’s not respectable enough for him.”
“What’s happened?” Ned asked.
“He didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me to my face.” Mr. Kemble pointed to a note open on the table. “He sent that instead. Go on, you might as well read it.”
The terse note consisted of just a few lines informing Mr. Kemble, respectfully, that Mr. Renfrew had decided to seek a life off the stage. Ned looked up. “Seek a life?”
“I don’t know why I hired the fellow in the first place. Pretentious prig.”
Ned held out the note, but Mr. Kemble waved it away. “Glad you’re back, Ned. You’re fully recovered, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bad business. Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?” He laughed at his own joke, and Ned smiled obligingly. Thanks to Alec, Ned knew the part Renfrew had played to have him press-ganged, but he still didn’t have any idea who’d written the note luring him to the docks. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.
“I heard what the court done about Mr. Clifford,” Ned said.
“Terrible business. Our poor box office keeper’s been demonized. Imagine accusing him of laying hands on Clifford and falsely arresting him! Mr. Brandon’s got to be sixty if he’s a day. Absurd to think he could do any damage to a strapping big oaf like Clifford. Nonsense, all of it.”
“What’s going to happen, sir? About the disturbances? I heard people are calling for Mr. Brandon to be dismissed.”
“Does lo
yalty mean nothing to these people? I’d sooner dismiss myself.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go find Mr. Cooke.”
“Here’s hoping he’s sober,” said Mr. Kemble. “The company’s glad to see you back, Ned.” He paused. “I’m glad.”
* * *
In the play that evening, Louisa took the female lead. She forgot a fair whack of her lines and mixed up the few words she did remember. The prompter in his small box close to the stage tried his best, but Louisa had no chance of hearing him. Ned might not have liked her much, but he did feel sorry for her. It was a rum go for the actors. If Mr. Kemble was not careful, he’d have a revolution on his hands. When the curtain finally descended and the theater cleared out, Ned was more relieved than usual to climb the stairs to his room.
Alec was still up. He’d moved back into their shared lodgings the day after he’d helped rescue Ned. Without saying a word, the two men knew they’d never talk about their time apart. Alec was lying on his bed, his hands linked behind his head.
“I thought you’d still be with Daisy,” Ned said.
“Naw, I told you before that she’s gone off somewheres. I don’t know where. Miz Gellie won’t tell me.”
Ned slumped onto the bed and started taking off his boots. “Riots ain’t letting up, and Mr. Kemble won’t bend. At this rate, we won’t have no peace by Christmas.”
“I been thinking,” Alec said.
Ned looked up sharply. “What?”
“That note from the woman sayin’ she was your ma? What you want to do about it?”
“You think it was real?”
“Aye. Renfrew weren’t working alone. That note were written by a woman.”
“I ain’t planning on doing nothin’ about it,” Ned said. “What good would it do?”
“Don’t you want to know who she is?”
“No.” He lay back on his bed.
“You got to find out.”
“I don’t.”
“If it was me, I’d want to know.”
“The woman could have got me killed. She’s a devil.”
“Miss Green and that husband of hers must know about her, else why’d they help you? Go see her. Find out the truth.”
The Muse of Fire Page 27