Restoration

by Deborah Chester

  Sticking out his tongue, he checked in the mirror but it had no furry appearance. No plague symptoms then. No flea bites, either, so he was all right in that department.

  He poured some water into the porcelain basin and splashed the cool liquid on his face. It felt good and helped revive him.

  He glanced at the snoring Osborne and quietly opened Tuptree’s trunk, which was still positioned across the door. It contained a few items of clothing and a lifetime of mementos. Playbills yellowed with age and much handling outlined the actor’s career. An oil miniature in an ornate frame showed Tuptree as a young, very handsome man before corpulence and drink had coarsened his looks. A second miniature had been painted of a young woman, lush and Rubenesque, her skin pearly white, her thick dark hair flowing free over bare shoulders. A sister? A lover? A wife? Noel laid it aside and dug further. He found a slim leather purse containing a gold crown, a handful of shillings, and some pennies. The man’s life savings? Another, larger bag of frayed silk held a pearl-and-ruby-necklace. It was a lovely piece of jewelry. A third bag held a man’s ring, a pair of brooches, and a lady’s garnet earrings.

  “Tokens of an appreciative audience,” said a hoarse voice. Startled, Noel spun around, the jewelry still clutched in his hand, and saw Osborne sitting up in bed, bleary eyed and red with anger.

  “Before Cromwell’s sanctimonious cutthroats killed the old king,” said Osborne, “Arthur was a favorite at court. He read poetry to the queen and her ladies. He performed almost weekly.”

  Noel lowered his eyes from Osborne’s accusing gaze. Carefully, keeping his hands visible, he put the jewelry back into its bag and returned it to the trunk. Inside he was cursing himself for not having searched the actors’ belongings last night while Will was unconscious. Getting caught like this made him look like a thief. It wouldn’t help him convince Will to trust him.

  “Mr. Tuptree was a famous man,” said Noel carefully.

  Osborne’s scowl deepened. “He remains famous, I’ll have you know. All those years with the Puritans banning plays, closing the theaters, hunting us down like a scourge…well, Arthur hung on to his art. He lived in France for years. He performed for the king in exile. And when the king returned to England, Arthur knew he would perform at Whitehall again. And now he’s been sent for. The lord chancellor has hired him to entertain the king tonight. It’s the greatest honor of his life, and he’ll be as splendid as he was when he was young. You’ll see. They’ll all see.”

  “No,” said Noel quietly, closing the lid of the trunk, “I’m afraid they won’t.”

  “What do you mean? What do you have to say about it, stranger? You’re a thief. You have no—”

  “I’m not a thief,” said Noel, facing him. “And Mr. Tuptree is dead.”

  Osborne flung back the covers and scrambled off the bed to his feet. White faced, he glared at Noel. “That’s a lie!”

  Noel shook his head, sympathizing, but firm. “I wish it were. He fell down the stairs last night and—”

  “No!” Osborne’s eyes widened and he lifted his hands as though to repudiate Noel’s words. “You’re wrong. It can’t—”

  “I’m sorry,” said Noel. “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  Osborne staggered back and turned around. He was bone thin and narrow shouldered. From the rear he looked like a reed. He hunched over and buried his face in his hands. “Broke his neck?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “Heard it. I…I wouldn’t drink with him after you passed out. He was going downstairs for more companionship when…it happened.”

  Osborne tipped back his head. “Oh…God!" he cried in despair, his voice naked with grief. “Not Arthur. Not…”

  His voice broke into unabashed weeping.

  Noel frowned and turned away, not wanting to watch, yet unwilling to leave the room. The boy sounded pathetic, his sobs ugly and ragged. His linen shirt was open at the neck and had slipped over one white, bony shoulder. With his hair standing on end, and beard stubble on his cheeks, he was a mess and should be left alone.

  But Noel dared not leave. Once Will was absorbed into the grieving circle of the company, Noel would have no access to him.

  Uncomfortable, he shoved his hands in his pockets and forced himself to keep talking. “They’ve made the arrangements, some of them, I think. They’ll expect you to make the final decision.”

  Osborne gulped noisily and wiped his face on his sleeve. “I’m in charge of the company,” he said, his voice wet and unsteady. “The director, although with me the youngest, it was Arthur they really listened to. Oh, God…”

  “Stop it,” said Noel more sharply than he meant to. “Pull yourself together. You can’t face them like this.”

  Osborne nodded, then glared suspiciously over his shoulder at Noel. “And who are you? Why do you presume to offer me advice?”

  “That’s better.”

  “Answer my question, sir! Nay, don’t bother. You’re a thief. You were riffling our things when I caught you. Don’t deny it.”

  “Sure I was going through his trunk,” said Noel, making himself meet Will’s eyes. “I was looking for his script.”

  The boy blinked. “His what?”

  “His script. His part. His lines.”

  Will’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked angry again. “Easy enough to say. We’ll send for the beadle and you can tell him the same thing. Or turn out your pockets.”

  “The hell I will,” said Noel heatedly before he remembered he was trying to gain the boy’s trust. Sighing, he held up his hand to forestall Will’s retort and pulled out his heavy purse of money. “Mine,” he said sharply. “You can count the pittance that’s in Tuptree’s.” He produced the wrapper that had held his lunch provided by the Institute and unfolded it to reveal a sprinkling of crumbs. Then he turned his pockets inside out and glared at the boy.

  Will glared back. “Your coat?”

  Noel rolled his eyes. Picking up his coat off the back of the chair, he plunged his hand into the pocket and drew his pistol.

  Will gasped and stepped back against the bed. His hands lifted into the air.

  “Stop that,” said Noel sharply. “I’m not aiming it at you. I’m not robbing you. Put down your hands.”

  Will complied, but he was still pale. His gaze remained warily on the pistol until Noel put it back in his coat pocket.

  “Satisfied?” said Noel. He gestured at the trunk. “Check it if you want. I’ve told you why I was going through it.”

  Will sidled cautiously around him and began to put the items Noel had scattered back into the trunk one by one, his hands unsteady but reverent as he handled them. “I suppose you haven’t been through my belongings?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got heaps of plays and old manuscripts in the big trunk. Arthur never kept any. He knew them all by heart, all the good things. The rest he had me read aloud to him, then he knew his lines at once after only one hearing. He had a prodigiously good memory.”

  Noel said nothing. He pretended to look out the window, but he noticed when Will counted the money in Tuptree’s purse, then surreptitiously pocketed it. Noel’s lips tightened, but he let it go. The boy had more right to the money than anyone else. None of the actors looked prosperous.

  “Why,” said Will, closing the lid of the trunk at last and shoving it away from the door, “should you want a copy of his plays?”

  It was the question Noel had been waiting for since he threw out the bait. He pounced. “Because I’m an actor. I want a job.”

  Will blinked in confusion. “Are you? But we haven’t any openings—”

  “Yes, you do,” said Noel.

  “Oh.” Will’s face crumpled, and tears filled his eyes.

  Afraid he was going to start crying again, Noel walked up to him. “Look, I know I’m being pushy, but times are hard. You need someone to take his place, and I can do it.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said
Will icily. “No one can fill Arthur’s shoes.”

  “I don’t mean I’m a better actor. I mean I can do his part.”

  “Sorry,” said Will. “No.”

  “But—”

  “The answer is no. We have—we shan’t be hiring anyone for a time. I think I’ll go home to Somerset and write for a while. The others will find work easily enough here in London.”

  “Hold it,” said Noel. “What about your performance tonight?”

  “At Clarendon House?”

  Noel barely restrained his impatience. “For God’s sake, yes! You’re supposed to perform for the king.”

  “Not without Arthur.”

  “You can’t call it off.”

  Will looked at him as though he had two heads. “Are you mad? Of course we will. Arthur’s memory demands some respect.”

  “What’s more respectful than to go on, dedicating the performance to him? That’s what Arthur—uh, Mr. Tuptree—lived for, isn’t it? To play at court again, wasn’t that his dream? Are you going to throw that away?”

  “But it’s Arthur the king wants to see!” said Will in exasperation. “Not the rest of this motley—”

  “Where’s your confidence? Tuptree trained you, didn’t he?”

  Will nodded morosely. “He said I was hopeless. Jack is good, but he can’t do everything. Darcy has skill but he lacks the range for major roles. The others are…well, I couldn’t afford to pay anyone better. Tuptree and Osborne isn’t what it was in my father’s day. My father was a genius. He penned some of the company’s most popular successes, and Arthur could entrance the audience from his first word. I don’t know why Arthur stayed with us after Father died. Most of the others retired or left for better positions. I’ve always wanted to write instead of act, but my scribbling isn’t much better than my acting.”

  “Self-pity will get you nowhere,” muttered Noel.

  Will straightened his shirt and looked around for his coat and neckcloth. “I suppose I’d better go down now and face them. There’s a funeral to see to, providing we can get a minister—”

  “Why not?” asked Noel, puzzled. “Last night they said even a priest wouldn’t come.”

  “I should hope not! Arthur was no Catholic.”

  “Yes, but why can’t he be buried in—”

  “Don’t you know?” asked Will in a strange tone. He frowned at Noel, who shook his head. “Where do you come from, sir?”

  “From a place that has no prejudices against actors,” said Noel. “Do you mean it’s because he’s an—”

  “Of course. We have the devil in us when we play a part. Our bones don’t belong with those of good Christians,” said Will bitterly. “A nice life, don’t you think? Knowing that when you die, the vicar will send you to hell?”

  “Charming superstition,” said Noel drily.

  A quick, involuntary grin crossed Will’s face and was gone, but some of the raw grief lessened in his eyes. He clapped Noel on the shoulder. “I begin to think perhaps you really are an actor, sir. Your sentiments are in the right place. Where did you train?”

  “Uh, in—abroad.”

  “The Continent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where specifically? The Druske Theatre in—”

  “No,” said Noel, not wanting to get into reminisces of places he’d never seen. “Mostly country fairs, small circuit. Nothing fancy. I realize you’ll think I’m no good to play before a king, but I promise you I can do whatever’s necessary.”

  Will was still looking at him in a measuring way. “Then you speak foreign languages?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Several.”

  Will rattled off a question in badly phrased, horribly accented Italian. Noel replied fluently.

  Will’s brows shot up. “German?”

  Using a Prussian dialect, Noel said something about the kaiser’s mother liking ice cream.

  Will grinned, but it was obvious he didn’t understand. “And French?”

  Noel spoke descriptively of Paris weather and the beauty of the palace gardens.

  That Will did understand. He smiled. “You sound like a native. My tutor would have been rapturous over your fluency. Any others, specifically?”

  “Russian, Latin, Greek, Egyptian—”

  “We have no need of those languages,” said Will, trying hard not to sound impressed. “You are an educated man, sir. Clever and well in funds. Why should you want a job, and with such a shabby band as ours?”

  “Why put yourself down?” retorted Noel. “I can’t live on my savings forever.”

  “From the purse you showed me you could do very well for a year or more.”

  “I have expensive tastes,” said Noel.

  “Then audition at one of the London theaters. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, yes,” said Noel. “But you’re scheduled to appear at court.”

  “Is that it? You want to perform before the king?”

  “Do I need a better reason?”

  Will, however, was frowning. “You’ve played only at country fairs, only in Europe. No one has ever heard of you. That is, I presume as much, for you haven’t told me your name.”

  “We were introduced last night,” said Noel, lying through his teeth.

  “Were we?” asked Will in surprise. “I don’t remember.”

  “You had your wig on backward.”

  “Oh, yes.” Will smiled sheepishly. “I’ve no head for drink. Forgive my discourtesy and please repeat your introduction.”

  “I’m Noel Kedran.”

  “Noel Kedran…no, the name is not familiar to me. So you are unknown, yet you expect to perform for the king. Without credentials, without an audition.” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “So audition me,” said Noel desperately.

  “Not today. I have to bury my friend. If you forget the grim duty before me, I cannot.”

  “I know it’s a bad time,” said Noel, “but you can’t give up this chance. Wouldn’t Tuptree want you to perform?”

  “You’re right,” said Will. “He would. It seems that while I slept you and Arthur made yourselves into acquaintances.”

  “Yes,” said Noel softly and wished it were true. Tuptree would be alive this morning, and history would be unchanged.

  “And we shall perform,” said Will resolutely. He put on his coat and smoothed the rumpled lapels. “Jack will take Arthur’s place. He can do a passable Hamlet. I will be Ophelia. Hal will play the queen. He’s long in the tooth but I can’t do all the women, and we fired the boys last month for…never mind what pranks they were playing. Darcy will do for the—”

  “Hold it,” said Noel. “I thought you were going to put on Julius Caesar.”

  “Impossible,” said Will. “Without Arthur we have no Brutus.”

  His tone held finality. Noel cursed to himself.

  “I’m sorry I accused you of stealing, Mr. Kedran,” said Will. “I wish you well in your endeavors. Whether you are a gentleman who’s been cast out by his family or whether you are spending the summer incognito for purposes of a wager, that is your affair. But you are not a player, no matter how many languages you speak. And I cannot admit you to our company simply so that you can meet the king. That would abuse the honor His Majesty has offered us. Good day to you.”

  He opened the door and stepped out.

  “Damn,” whispered Noel, frantic for a means of convincing him. “LOC, access Julius Caesar. Feed me the lines of Brutus, Act One, through my translator implant. Quick!”

  The LOC’s voice filled his head. Noel listened for a second, then jumped in, echoing what he heard:

  “‘I am not gamesome: I do lack some part/Of that quick spirit that is in Antony./Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;/I’ll leave you.’”

  In the hallway outside, he heard Will’s footsteps falter and stop. Out of sight, Will’s voice came back: “‘Brutus, I do observe you now of late:/I have n
ot from your eyes that gentleness/And show of love as I was wont to have:/You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand/Over your friend that loves you.’”

  Noel drew a deep breath, concentrating to be sure he got it right. “‘Cassius, be not deceiv’d: if I have veil’d my look,/I turn the trouble of my countenance/Merely upon myself. Vexed I am/Of late with passions of some difference…’”

  He let his voice trail off and waited impatiently for a moment. When Will remained silent, Noel strode to the door and looked out at him. “Well?”

  Will’s face held uncertainty. “What is the opening line for Brutus?”

  Noel had that down cold. “‘A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.’”

  “And his last?”

  Noel swore. “What is this? The Grand Inquisition?”

  Will frowned, and Noel held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. Uh, just a moment while I think.” He waited impatiently for the LOC to scan to the end, hoping the last line was recorded in the data banks. “Still thinking. Just a minute. Oh, yeah. I’m falling on my sword in good Roman fashion. Here goes: ‘Caesar, now be still:/I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.’”

  He looked up, feeling like a trained dog waiting to be praised.

  Will’s face betrayed no expression. “How well do you know Wycherley and the works of Dryden and Etherege?”

  “Not as well,” said Noel truthfully, wondering if his LOC had anything on the Restoration playwrights.

  Will shrugged. “So you know the lines. But can you act?”

  “I can.”

  “Can you act before an audience?”

  “Yes.”

  “A distinguished audience?”

  “Yes!”

  Will’s frown deepened. “And not go blank with fright? And not let your voice break? You’ve had no rehearsal. We’re not used to you. It’s too risky, even if I were inclined to give you a chance. No, Mr. Kedran. I’m sorry.”

  He turned to walk toward the stairs. Noel hurried after him.