The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

  Ned filled the doorway with his height. The room smelled hot and stale and sweet. The woman was sitting on an upholstered chair facing the fire.

  “Mrs. Knowlton.” He said the name flatly, without question, without the respect a man of his class should show to a woman of hers.

  The woman swiveled her head to peer up at him. With a composure worthy of the actress she’d once been, she replaced a flicker of alarm with a slight curl of her upper lip.

  “You.”

  He walked a few steps into the room, stood above her—loomed above her—for a moment letting himself enjoy the power. He could hurt her. The consequences might even be worth it to see her suffer for what she tried to have done to him.

  If the woman was worried that he might harm her, she gave no sign. As cool as a queen, she rose from her chair and turned to face him. Tall like her niece, she drenched the space between them with her dried-out lavender smell. Hard lines at the sides of her mouth deepened, and then, for a moment, bloodless lips twitched and softened. The smile was so fleeting that Ned would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching and waiting. It’s what he’d come for: proof, however slight, that this woman—no better, no worse than his own mother—still had some bits of a heart.

  “What do you want?”

  “I come to tell you somethin’ that you won’t want to hear.”

  The blue of her eyes was like a glittering winter sky on a clear day when the sun gave no warmth. Shiny silver threads wove through her gown. Above the mantel, an older man with prominent whiskers scowled from a framed painting. The artist had set him in a tropical place, a white house with columns in the distance, a dark figure in the foreground holding out a plate of fruit.

  “Tell me.”

  Ned shuffled feet too large and too dirty for the fine carpet. “I ain’t your son,” he said.

  “Of course you are not.”

  “No, ma’am, I mean that I’m really not your son. I know you think I am, else why would you have wanted to get rid of me? I heard your story from Mr. Harrison at the theater, and I don’t blame you for bein’ desperate, and all. At the hospital, I saw plenty of girls just like you were. The people what run the place didn’t think I saw, but I snuck out at night, like, and watched lots of things happen that I weren’t supposed to know about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was born there, ma’am, just like the child you left off.”

  “You must despise me.”

  “For giving up a child? Not really, ma’am. You were young. Desperate. They all were.”

  “You know nothing about it.”

  “I don’t blame you—leastways not for that.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry for what I did, if it’s any comfort. But Mr. Renfrew’s as much at fault. Handing you over to the press-gang was his idea.”

  “I ain’t spending another minute thinking ’bout Mr. Renfrew. Last I heard, he’s gone to a company up north. They can have him.”

  “I can’t undo the past.”

  Years of not knowing—of hoping, of wanting so desperately to find her—fell away, and he was small again. He reached under his shirt and with a quick, satisfying wrench, broke the cord. The button dropped into his hand. For the last time, he ran his fingers over the roughened edges.

  “You can take this, now,” he said. “I don’t need it.” He dropped the button at her feet. “I took it off your baby not long after she was christened.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A daughter. That’s what you had. I weren’t much more than six years old, and I had no business being anywhere near the nursery, but I snuck in and took the button that you’d pinned to her blanket. I guess I wanted something for myself. I hid it for years—until they let me out—and then I’ve hung on to it ever since. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I just liked to pretend it was from me own mother. The governors at the hospital—they kept the records about the mothers and their babies locked up, like, so we couldn’t never get at them. We weren’t even supposed to know about them.”

  “A touching story.”

  “Do you want to know about the girl?”

  “I suppose I can’t stop you telling me.” The woman’s jaw tightened, her lips pressed together so hard that her whole face was as rigid as one of the stone statues at the theater. But her body betrayed her. She stepped forward and clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking.

  “They christened her the day before she died.”

  “She died?” Augusta sank into her chair.

  “Yes, ma’am. A lot of the babies did. I weren’t meant to see them being taken away. Some of them were so small I could have carried them in one hand, even me being a lad and all.”

  “What did they name her?”

  “Desdemona.”

  The face that had once commanded cheers and applause from scores of men in the pit crumpled. A line from Othello came back to Ned.

  It is the cause . . .

  He turned around and left the house and walked rapidly through the wet streets to the theater.

  * * *

  Percival’s fever broke in the afternoon of December 6. One moment he was glassy-eyed and burning up, and the next, as if a candle had been snuffed out, his eyes cleared, and he looked up at Grace as if he’d never left her.

  “My dear?”

  “I am here, Percival. You must not exert yourself.” She smiled down at him.

  “I doubt there is much risk of that.” His voice strengthened. “Why do you look at me like that? Has something happened?”

  “I am just fatigued.” It was too soon to tell him how close to death he’d come. She took one of his hands in her own—it felt lighter now, as if his very flesh had burned out along with the fever. Percival’s eyes flicked to the door as Betsy entered the room, carrying a tray of tea things. Her face was as white as the belly of a dead fish.

  “Thank you, Betsy,” Grace said. “Please ask Mrs. Granger to send up supper. I will dine with Mr. Knowlton tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Betsy’s eyes looked ready to pop from her head, making the resemblance to a fish even more acute, particularly since the girl had grown very round of late. Grace thought again of her resolve to send Betsy back to Somerset. She did not look happy in London.

  Betsy stood back from the tea things but did not move toward the door.

  “Betsy?”

  Percival glanced up at the girl and then fixed his gaze on Grace. “You must get some rest, my dear. We can’t have you knocked up. What is your next role? Now that I am on the mend, you must get back to it.”

  “Mr. Kemble is considering me for Ophelia on the nineteenth. But I have not yet given him an answer. I did not want to leave you.”

  “I have given you a great deal of trouble.”

  She squeezed his hand and was gratified to feel him weakly return the pressure. The darkness was behind them now. Percival would recover, and they’d start over. It wasn’t too late. She stroked his cheek and bent forward to kiss his forehead—the simple action of a fond wife that she finally felt ready to do. He smiled up at her, and for the first time since her marriage, her heart expanded.

  A shriek sliced the thick, hot air. Grace felt her shoulder gripped and pulled back, forcing her to let go of Percival’s hand and almost throwing her to the floor.

  Betsy tore off her cap and leaped forward.

  “Liar!” she screamed. “You said you cared for me! Liar!” She threw herself onto the bed.

  “Betsy!”

  “Good heavens! Get her off me. The girl’s gone mad.”

  Grace grabbed Betsy around the waist and managed to drag her away from Percival before realizing the truth. She almost let the struggling girl go, but if she had, Betsy’s flailing fists might burst open Percival’s wound.

  “He said I was sweet,” Betsy sobbed. “He said he’d take care of me!” She collapsed back against Grace, her heavy body almost toppling her. Grace stroked the girl’s
forehead to calm her as she pulled her backward to the door. Grace did not dare look at Percival. If she saw even a hint of a sneer, she’d be in danger of hanging for murder.

  With the help of Mrs. Granger, Grace wrestled Betsy into a nightgown and tucked her into her small bed under the eaves on the top floor. Grace had never been up to the cramped area where Betsy spent her nights.

  “Is there a fire?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But it’s freezing in here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s December and all.”

  The one filthy window was frosted over, giving a blue tinge to the room. Grace waited until Betsy dropped off to sleep and then followed Mrs. Granger down the stairs to the warmth of Percival’s bedroom. Shame gripped her, the pain of her own neglect so acute that she wondered if she might faint. She had let Betsy fall prey to her husband’s appetites. She had been too preoccupied with her own needs to watch out for the girl. She had cared more about throwing herself at a second-rate actor than tending to the comforts of the people living under her own roof.

  “You have interfered with Betsy,” she said flatly as soon as she entered Percival’s room. “She is with child.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Foolish girl.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “You can hardly expect me to remain virtually celibate in my own home. If the silly girl was willing—and believe me she was willing—then I cannot be blamed for the outcome.”

  Grace had never in her life wanted to hurt another human being—even her father. Now she needed every fiber of her resolve to keep her hands from his throat. “You are despicable.”

  “Oh please, Grace. She’s not the first maid to get herself into trouble. I suggest we return her to the West Country. If her mother is still alive, she can take her in, and if not, I’m sure some other farmer’s wife will be glad of an addition to the family for the right price. I am not averse to paying.”

  “How generous of you.”

  “As I’ve said before, my dear, sarcasm does not become you.”

  Grace turned and left the room without another word.

  Chapter 36

  Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves.

  King Lear (1.2.101–02)

  Mr. Kemble slipped into the coat Ned held out. “You’d best go with me, Ned,” he said. “I may need your help.”

  “I’m happy to come, sir, but what help can I be?”

  “You can stand by the door and be ready with my coat when I get up to leave, which I hope to do as soon as possible. Damn me, I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “But you set up the dinner, sir, with Mr. Clifford and all. It’s the end, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ned. It is the end. Tonight, I’ll be forced to eat enough of my own words to choke a horse. I wouldn’t be surprised if the joint served at the Crown and Anchor is horse. That would be a fitting end to this mess.” He picked up his walking stick. “We’d best be off, Ned. The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

  The Crown and Anchor Tavern, located in the Piazza a few steps from the New Theatre, was one of the favorite haunts of the men who had emerged as leaders during the Old Price riots. As a show of good faith, Mr. Kemble and the other managers had invited the OP leaders to a dinner put on with all due pomp and good cheer. Mr. Kemble promised to go onstage after the dinner to announce the terms of the peace—that he’d lower the prices for the pit and order a section of the private boxes removed.

  At half-price time on Thursday, the fourteenth day of December, Mr. Kemble returned to the theater from the Crown and Anchor and wasted no time making good on his promise. Before the fourth act of the main piece—a farce called, fittingly enough, The Provoked Husband—Mr. Kemble walked onto the stage.

  The crowd waited for once in silence as Mr. Kemble outlined the terms of the peace. He reduced the price of the pit from four shillings back to the old price of three shillings and sixpence, but kept the price for the boxes at seven shillings and the lower gallery at two shillings. He also promised that, at the end of the season, he would restore the annual boxes to public use.

  There was a moment of silence when Mr. Kemble finished speaking, and then, as one voice, the audience burst into angry jeers, the noisemakers as vigorously wielded as if it were Day Two of the riots and not Day Sixty-five.

  “What now?” asked Alec. Ned had arranged to have Alec hired on as a scene changer. Mr. Kemble was so pleased that Ned had survived impressment that he’d made no objection.

  “They want Brandon dismissed and Mr. Kemble to apologize.”

  “Bleedin’ insane,” Alec snorted. “Why should Brandon be fired? He weren’t doin’ nothing more than his job, same as us.”

  Mr. Kemble stood for a few more minutes upon the stage. The bellowing for Mr. Brandon increased until finally Mr. Kemble bowed and withdrew. He swept past Ned, his face purple with fury. Minutes later, the door to his dressing room slammed shut. Mr. Brandon emerged from the shadows.

  “No! Mr. Brandon, sir!” exclaimed Ned. “You can’t go out there.”

  “Brandon out!”

  “Dismiss Brandon!”

  Mr. Brandon waited backstage for several more minutes. The yells turned to chants—a thousand voices raised in unified outrage.

  “I must try talking to them,” he said. “Mr. Kemble and the other managers deserve that much from me.”

  Ned watched helplessly as Mr. Brandon shuffled out onto the stage. He had served the theater for over thirty years, but now he might as well be a martyr thrown into the flames. The crowd screamed and hissed and booed. Each time Mr. Brandon called for their attention, the noise increased. A stick flew from the pit. He dodged it just in time, but another stick bounced off his leg. A rotten orange hit his shoulder and splatted onto the stage. Mr. Brandon turned and fled into the wings.

  “Drop the curtain!” Ned yelled.

  The crowd kept up the noise for several more minutes, but when the afterpiece did not begin, most of the audience lost their enthusiasm. Within half an hour, the theater was empty. After making sure that all the actors, including Mr. Kemble, had left, Ned checked that the theater was secure and let himself out into the wet night. He ached with the frustration of thwarted expectations. Would nothing satisfy the crowd? He felt as old as Mr. Harrison. Maybe that’s how he’d end his days—peevish and always chilly, manning the stage door. At least Mr. H. had his glory days to relive. Ned had nothing.

  * * *

  To Grace’s surprise, Augusta listened in silence to her description of Percival’s recovery and the fate of poor Betsy. They were in Grace’s sitting room, drinking tea supplied by Mrs. Granger. Grace almost felt sympathy for her aunt. The shock of seeing her son so soon after his brush with death had worn away a layer or two of her armor. Augusta took a sip of the hot tea, gripping the handle of her cup with clawlike fingers. She set the cup down on the spindly side table with deliberate care.

  “I’m afraid I feel myself obliged to add to your troubles.”

  “Aunt?” Grace took up her own cup and sipped.

  “You must wonder why I wrote to your father. It was wrong of me, I freely acknowledge.”

  “My mother paid with her life.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “It is true that I have no proof that my father had anything to do with her death, but I suspect him.”

  “Your father is not an amiable man.”

  “And you did a terrible thing, Aunt. So much of this heartache would have been prevented if you had kept silent.”

  “I am not inclined to make more than a partial apology. I had a reason for my interference.”

  “What could possibly justify telling my father that my mother had given birth to an illegitimate child when she had not?” Grace picked up her cup again and then set it down without taking a sip. She held her breath as a spasm of nausea rose and then subsided. The tea leaves must be stale. She would talk with
Mrs. Granger about it after her aunt left.

  “For one of the basest of reasons,” Augusta said calmly. “Money, or more precisely, my lack of it. Let me explain.”

  “Please.”

  “What do you know of Percival’s financial situation?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me. I suspect you know very little, which is hardly surprising. I also knew almost nothing about my husband’s affairs until his death forced me to face the unpleasant truth. Mr. Knowlton was ill suited to manage the estate his father left him. You may not realize it, but my husband’s father had made his fortune in the North—in trade. I am not ashamed of it, and considering the connections of your own father, I don’t expect you to be either.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m well aware that my father made his money at sea. He had no pretensions to the gentry.” Another spasm of nausea gripped her—this one so strong that she pressed her hand against her belly.

  “Quite. When the death of Mr. Knowlton revealed to me the full extent of his poor decisions, I was forced to sell his estate in Jamaica.”

  “I was not aware that he had one.”

  “Percival knew about the sale, but he did not know its effect on his inheritance. I have maintained a generous allowance for him—and you have benefited. But I could not sustain it without help.”

  “And so you arranged to have me disinherited,” Grace said. “No wonder you did not wish me to marry Percival.”

  “For that and other reasons,” Augusta said. “He had his pick of so many young ladies—some with considerable fortunes. You brought nothing to the marriage.”

  “Considering Percival already had my father’s estate, that is true. So, Aunt, I’m to believe that you wreaked all this havoc to secure your son’s future. Congratulations. He has survived an injury that almost killed him, thanks to your actions, and now he’s shamed himself—not to mention me—by interfering with the maid. Am I to thank you for that too?”

  “You will suit yourself on that score. Have you decided what you plan to do?”