The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

“I am fortunate, Aunt, that what I wish to do and what I must do are the same. I will work to secure my own fortune by continuing my career on the stage. I don’t see I have any other choice.”

  “Whatever money you make will still belong to your husband.”

  “I am aware, but you can be sure I won’t stand by, as you did, and allow my husband to squander it. I am not a fool.”

  “No, Grace, that was something I’ve never thought about you.” Augusta rose from her chair and snapped open her fan. “Good day to you. Inform Percival that I will wait upon him again next week.”

  As soon as her aunt left the house, Grace bolted upstairs to find a chamber pot.

  Chapter 37

  Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

  And welcome home again discarded faith.

  King John (5.4.11–12)

  On the evening of Friday, December 15, Ned and Alec watched from the wings as Mr. Kemble stepped once more onto the stage, his demeanor still as haughty as it was on the first day of the riots. He faced a packed house. All of London wanted to see if the great Mr. Kemble had been made to bend.

  “Brandon’s gone,” Ned whispered.

  “Bloody shame.”

  “Mr. Kemble’s said he’ll give him a pension.”

  “It’s the least he could do.”

  Mr. Kemble began to speak, his deep voice unhurried as with little visible effort, he projected to the highest galleries.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, having had the misfortune to incur your displeasure, Mr. Brandon has withdrawn from the office of box office keeper of the New Theatre.”

  “Poor bugger,” Alec said.

  “Shut it.”

  The crowd applauded, and after bowing, Mr. Kemble started to walk offstage. A renewal of boos and hisses stopped him.

  “Now what?” asked Alec.

  “They want him to apologize.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “I dunno. Listen.”

  Mr. Kemble paused and then pulled himself up to his full height and strode forward to the front of the stage. Below him the orchestra conductor looked up expectantly, one hand holding the baton in readiness for his cue.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mr. Kemble began. “In understanding that some notice ought to be taken of the introduction of improper persons into the theater, I have only to declare in my own name, and in that of the rest of the proprietors, that we lament the circumstance and shall consider it as our first duty to prevent its recurrence.”

  “What’s he on about?” Alec asked.

  “He’s saying he’s sorry for bringing in the boxers—Mendoza and Dutch Sam and their lot—back in October.” Ned ran his fingers over his forehead, the scar still fresh. “A fine mess that was.”

  “So why didn’t he bleedin’ say so?”

  “Fancy Mr. Kemble lamenting the circumstance.” Ned grinned at the sound of the audience cheering with as much energy as they usually injected into their shouts and boos. “They’re coming round!”

  “About time.”

  Ned peered out at the pit, trusting to the darkness backstage to keep him hidden from the audience. “Look there!” he cried, pointing to the pit, where, amid much clapping and hallooing, several men were hoisting a huge banner. Ned read it out loud for Alec.

  WE ARE SATISFIED.

  “That’s it then?” Alec asked.

  “I guess so.”

  Mr. Kemble accepted the applause with a thin smile and curt bow. The noise continued for many more minutes until, exhausted, the crowd subsided into murmurs and coughs.

  “Stand aside. Here he comes.”

  “Cue the actors, Ned,” Mr. Kemble growled as he passed. “Let us get back to being a theater and not a circus for the amusement of ruffians with nothing better to do than threaten the livelihoods of honest players.”

  “He ain’t really sorry, is he?” Alec asked as soon as Mr. Kemble was out of earshot.

  Ned shook his head. “’Course not. But at least he’s seen sense. Help me get the lads moving with the scenery. We got us a show to put on.”

  * * *

  The applause rolled and crested—ocean waves crashing against the cliffs on a bright day. Grace stood alone in front of the audience, her hair still unbound from the mad scene, her sea-green gown luminous in the candlelight. The pit heaved with cheering, clapping men. Shouts of Brava! Brava! rose above the applause. Every person in the theater, every heart, and every pair of hands united in appreciation of Mr. Kemble’s new star.

  Grace curtsied again and again, her arms sweeping in elegant arcs, her eyes downcast. She had done it. Ophelia was hers. Mr. Kemble had to keep her on now. She had a future with the company and could bask in the adoration of strangers every night for decades. Percival couldn’t stop her. No one could stop her.

  “They love you!” Ned exclaimed when the audience finally let her leave the stage.

  Grace nodded, her eyes blurred with tears. They should have been tears of joy, but her heart felt hollowed out, like an abandoned shell on the beach at Clevedon. She walked slowly away from the stage along the dark corridor leading to Mrs. Siddons’s dressing room, allocated temporarily to her use. The nausea that had plagued her for several days had fortunately subsided, but her head ached, and she longed for silence.

  “Grace?”

  Percival stood at the open door to the dressing room. His arm was still in a sling, and he’d lost so much weight that his coat hung off his shoulders. Even the cravat at his chin sagged. The handsome breaker of hearts, the man Grace once thought she could love, bowed stiffly. “A splendid ovation, my dear.”

  “I had not expected you.” She entered the room and stood aside to let him pass. He sank gratefully onto the sofa. Grace had paid to have it recovered.

  “Thank you, my dear. I’m afraid my days of sitting on a hard bench in the pit are over.”

  “You should have found a seat in one of the boxes.”

  “I could not get one. You saw how packed the theater was this evening. Everyone wanted to see Mr. Kemble’s new protégé perform Ophelia. You did me proud, my dear.”

  “I did not do it for you.”

  “We must find a way forward, Grace. I’ve said I’m sorry about Betsy. The girl will be taken care of. Can we not let the past go?”

  “I don’t know, Percival. Can we?” She joined him on the sofa, her after-performance weariness at war with the triumph of conquest.

  “You must know that I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you onstage in Bath when you dropped the dagger.”

  “You’ve never said.”

  The same shadow of hurt that Grace had glimpsed only occasionally flashed across his face. She remembered him mixing water for her wine when she was exhausted and confused by the riots. He could be gentle. He could be kind. Could she forgive him? She had done the same as he had, although he’d never know.

  “Why did you come with me to rescue Ned?” she asked. “And please, don’t tell me that the answer is obvious. It is not to me.”

  “Because I knew that you wanted me to.”

  “I have never said I loved you.”

  “No, Grace, but that is not to say you never will.” The old Percival was back—smooth and confident.

  “I cannot give up the stage.” She gazed down at her clasped hands.

  “I will not ask you to.”

  The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.

  Another spasm of nausea made the decision for her. She held out her hand for him to take.

  * * *

  Ned found Olympia in the costume room. She had her back to him. Mrs. Beecham was kneeling at her feet, pinning and fussing. Olympia was playing Rosalind again in As You Like It. She wore a new costume for the start of the new year. The first few days after the theater re-opened in January had been rough—the crowds dismayed to find that the promised renovations to the second tier of boxes had not been completed. The riots began all over again, but fortunately lasted only a few nights. M
r. Kemble appealed to the OPs sense of fair play—they could not expect the boxes to be removed so swiftly—and the crowd settled.

  “Olympia.”

  When she glanced over her shoulder at Ned, his heart squeezed. With her hair gathered under a wide-brimmed boy’s cap adorned with a white feather, she was all eyes and mouth—indescribably sweet. The blue tunic that Mrs. Beecham was pinning came to just below Olympia’s knees, revealing calves clad only in pale-colored stockings. The deep-red sash wrapped around her waist emphasized rather than hid her figure. Mrs. Beecham took one look at Ned and hastily scrambled to her feet.

  “I’ve got to go check on Mrs. Siddons,” she said. “Now that she’s back, she wants no end of attention to her costumes.”

  Ned waited in silence for her to leave.

  “You’re looking very serious, Ned,” Olympia said. She pulled off her cap. The pins holding her hair fell, pinging as they hit the floor. Hair the color of the polished stage boards—brown and gold in the candles—cascaded down her narrow back. Ned swallowed hard and stepped forward.

  “I heard your mother’s gone back to the general.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I got me ways, seein’ as I guess you could say I’m interested, like.” He reached for her hand. “What’s stopping you now, Olympia?”

  She stood very still. From the pit, she’d look like a lad just stepping into life. But close up, she was a woman with rounded cheeks and the face of Ned’s dreams.

  * * *

  “She said yes? You sure she’s right in the head?”

  Ned grinned at his friend. “You’re just jealous. We’re to be married in February. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “’Course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss it, though I never expected either of us to get tangled up with the law.”

  “Marriage ain’t getting tangled with the law, Alec.”

  “Close enough. You’ll be bound to her forever, Ned. You know that, don’t you? No more freedom for you.”

  “If you’re worried about finding someone to share the room with, I can ask around. One of the callboys might be interested, or maybe a utility. Places ain’t easy to find these days.”

  “Nah, you needn’t bother.” It was Alec’s turn to grin. “You ain’t the only one lookin’ to get respectable.”

  “Daisy?”

  “I told you she’s gone and all. No—it’s Mrs. Beecham at the theater I got me eye on. She’s a fine-looking woman and makes a good income. I can’t ask fairer than that.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “I’m gettin’ round to it. What’s the hurry?”

  Ned slapped Alec on the back and ordered another two mugs of beer. “We’ve landed on our feet after all. Old Mrs. King wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “She’d have believed it of you, Ned,” Alec said.

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “Didn’t I never tell you about the time she had me into her office?”

  Ned shook his head.

  “She told me to stay away from you, that I was a bad influence, like, and that you was too kind for your own good and that I wasn’t to go corrupting you. She was a right bitch.”

  “Ah, well, what did she know?” Ned downed his beer in one gulp. “I got to get back. Olympia’s waiting for me at the theater.”

  “Already she’s got you by the short hairs.”

  Ned grinned and waved him away. A new life lay before him—one he never dared hope for. He was a lucky man and all.

  Chapter 38

  November 1810

  Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;

  Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.

  Hamlet (3.3.193–94)

  Grace pulled the blanket tightly around her son to shield him from a sudden gust of autumn wind, then pulled open the stage door. It was her first day back at the theater since his birth four months earlier. Olympia met her in Mr. Harrison’s room. She had promised to look after the baby while Grace went on as Juliet with Mr. Charles Kemble as her Romeo.

  Olympia’s own daughter had not been in the world for more than a few weeks, and Olympia had no plans to return to the theater. She confessed herself blissfully happy with married life. Grace couldn’t help feeling a touch of envy mixed with happiness for her friend.

  “Dear me, Grace. You’ll smother the poor child. Here, give him to me.” Olympia held out plump arms. “Percival is well?”

  “His wound still pains him,” Grace said. “The surgeon tells him he’s not to ride anymore, but Percival ignores him, and I’ve given up trying to stop him. He has little enough to occupy his time. My aunt keeps a tight rein on the money she gives him.”

  “Your father?”

  “My father still lives despite his best efforts to drink himself to death. He’s even given up on his causes, more’s the pity. At least there was a time in his life when he did some good in the world.”

  “Did he ever admit to spooking the mare?”

  “No.”

  “You are content to let the past stay in the past?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “At least your husband must be grateful that you’ve returned to the stage.”

  “I know very well that independence is a long way off for me,” Grace said, smiling. “But, yes, I believe Percival is learning to be grateful. I have made him promise to be a better manager of my money than his father was of his.”

  “I wish you luck with that.”

  “You are contented, Olympia?”

  “The example set for me by the general with my poor mother did not prepare me for such happiness,” Olympia said, her cheeks dimpling.

  “Ned is a lucky man.”

  “And you? Are you sure you’re ready to go back onstage? People might think it’s too soon since the birth of your son.”

  “Plenty of actresses have returned sooner,” Grace said. She loosened the blanket from around the baby’s chin. Solemn, brown eyes regarded her. Grace sometimes fancied that the child was peering into a world very different from the one in which he found himself.

  “He’s like his father,” Olympia said.

  “Yes, very like.”

  Grace kissed the baby’s forehead, nodded a greeting to Mr. Harrison, who half rose from his chair, and then walked along the corridor to a small dressing room. It was nowhere near as elegant as the one provided for Mrs. Siddons, but it had the advantage of being for her sole use.

  Ned had seen to it.

  Author’s Notes

  Several years ago, I was cleaning out my office (always a dangerous thing to do) and came across an essay I’d written when I was a graduate student many years earlier in the Centre for Drama at the University of Toronto. The essay described the Old Price Riots at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, in 1809. At the time I unearthed the essay, I was just finishing my first novel, The Towers of Tuscany, about a fictional woman artist in fourteenth-century Italy and was working on my second novel, A Woman of Note, about a fictional woman composer in nineteenth-century Vienna. I decided to complete my trilogy with a story about another woman in the arts—an actress. The Muse of Fire was born.

  When I read a work of historical fiction that is based on real events, I love discovering which bits of the novel are fiction and which bits are real. In The Muse of Fire, fact and fiction are inextricably linked. Ned and Grace, along with Alec, Olympia, Thomas Renfrew, Percival and Augusta Knowlton, Charlotte and Tobias Johnson, Betsy the maid, and Mr. Harrison, are fictional. So far as I know, the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, did not employ a stage manager with Ned’s responsibilities, and a Grace Green never acted in any of the performances described. However, most of the performances mentioned in the novel are real, with the exception of the production of Romeo and Juliet in Bath and As You Like It in London. I must make posthumous apologies to the actresses and actors who took the roles that I assigned to Grace, Thomas, and Olympia. For example, the role of Lady Anne that Grace plays with such spirit several
times during the OP Riots was actually played by Miss Norton. All other actors mentioned, such as Mr. Cooke, who played the doomed Richard III, and Mr. Charles Kemble, who played Romeo to Grace’s Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, are real. All references to roles taken by Mr. John Philip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons are also real.

  Mr. John Philip Kemble (1757–1823) plays an integral role in The Muse of Fire. He was a force to be reckoned with, and most of the actions ascribed to him really happened. His conversations with Ned are fictional; however, his stubbornness in the face of the ongoing theater riots is both real and legendary.

  Here’s a partial list of all the real people and events mentioned in The Muse of Fire in the order in which they occur in the novel.

  Mrs. Sarah Siddons (1755–1831) was considered the greatest tragic actress of her time. Her most famous role was Lady Macbeth. With her striking figure and expressive eyes, “The Siddons” was the rock star of her era. She was also the sister of John Philip Kemble and Charles Kemble. Mrs. Siddons did not play Lady Macbeth opposite Mr. Thomas Renfrew in Bath, and she didn’t have an understudy named Grace Green at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. However, Mrs. Siddons did appear as Lady Macbeth opposite her brother Mr. John Philip Kemble, who played Macbeth, on the opening night of the New Theatre Royal on September 18, 1809, and she did sweep off the stage declaring that she would not return until the disturbances were resolved. Mrs. Siddons did not act again at Covent Garden until January 1810. Two years later, she retired from the stage at the age of fifty-seven.

  Peg Woffington (1720–60) was an Irish actress discovered when she was a child in Dublin. She achieved great acclaim on the London stage, particularly for her performances in breeches parts, and was known to have several lovers including David Garrick, the great eighteenth-century tragedian.

  Mrs. Dora Jordan (1761–1816) was a famous comic actress, who appeared frequently at London’s two Theatre Royals—Drury Lane and Covent Garden. She was particularly popular in the role of Rosalind in As You Like It—a breeches part assigned to Olympia Adams in the novel. Mrs. Jordan was also the long-time mistress of William, Duke of Clarence, later King William IV (the uncle of Queen Victoria). Mrs. Jordan had ten illegitimate children with the Duke of Clarence, and all of them took the surname FitzClarence. Mrs. Jordan’s life ended sadly. She and the Duke of Clarence separated in 1811, and she eventually lost custody of all her children. She died penniless in Paris five years later at the age of fifty-five.