Charlotte couldn’t help but giggle at his pompous rhetoric. ‘What does he mean by that?’
‘By Temple of Muse he means the theatre where we are to perform,’ said Fanny, an unwilling interpreter. ‘And a thespian is an actor, which includes all of us, except you a’course.’
Charlotte tried not to feel slighted for it was a fair enough comment, yet somehow Fanny said it with such satisfaction that it made Charlotte feel uncomfortable. ‘I shall learn to be better,’ she said with a smile. ‘Perhaps you will help me.’
‘Taint my job to teach you,’ retorted Fanny and flounced away to give her face a perfunctory scrub with cold water before lying down on a bed to sleep.
‘Then I shall watch you all and learn that way,’ declared Charlotte.
The `Temple of Muse’ turned out to be the stable-yard behind the Black Boar Inn and by six o’clock the planked stage had been assembled, the green curtains lifted into place and the candles set ready in their tins. The dressing-room left much to be desired, being a draughty corner of a beer cellar, a double row of barrels forming a division between the men’s and the ladies’ section. There was a deal table and one cracked mirror on each side and a few pegs stuck in the whitewashed wall. It was all very primitive, yet everyone set out their costumes and greasepaints with scarcely a glance about them. ‘The smell of stale beer was almost overpowering but Charlotte resolutely closed her mind, if not her nose, to it and got on with the task in hand.
Sally did her make-up for her, applying deep carmine to her lips, a touch to her cheeks and black kohl around her eyes to highlight them. Then powder was applied and the excess brushed away with a hare’s foot. ‘Always use this,’ said Sal, ‘for luck.’ Charlotte’s hair was brushed until it shone and a blue ribbon tied about it. ‘We’ll let it hang loose, for effect,’ said Sally, smoothing the ripples with her hand. ‘You’ve lovely hair; ‘tis a pity to cover it. ‘Twill give the young gents something to ogle at, eh?’
‘What is she to wear?’ asked Fanny sharply, coming over at last to take an interest.
‘Well, since she can’t provide no costumes of her own, which is what we usually do,’ explained Sally to Charlotte, ‘she’ll have to borrow one out of the props box. Not of the most salubrious, you understand, and archaic in origin, but it’s the only way.’
‘She can wear this yellow satin,’ suggested Fanny, pulling a grubby looking dress with torn lace from the box. Charlotte could scarcely disguise a shudder. She was perfectly sure it would have fleas.
‘Can’t I stay in my own dress, or wear the blue one again which you lent me at Plymouth, Sal?’
Sally looked doubtful. ‘Wouldn’t be right for the part, duck. But I don’t much care for that sickly yeller one either. Here, let me have a look, Fanny. We must have something fit to wear.’ Fanny tossed down the yellow frock and went to finish her own dressing while Sally delved deep in the old trunk, pulling out all manner of costumes, none of which looked less than fifty years old. ‘Got to be simple,’ Sally puffed, heaving her ample frame into a kneeling position for a better look. ‘I know fashion is for the spectacular on stage, but in this case I maintain simple is most effective. Hero is an innocent, much disgraced by malicious gossip. Aw, now, what about this grey?’
Clad in the grey stuff gown which, though it clung well enough to Charlotte’s trim figure and belled out beautifully at the back into a long train, had not a trace of colour to it, Charlotte felt a twinge of disappointment. Surely half the fun of appearing on stage was the delight of wearing pretty costumes? And when she saw Fanny’s gown, for the part of Beatrice, she felt even worse. It was bright scarlet and encrusted with spangles and tinsel, edged with gold lace and silken tassels. In contrast to the girl’s black mass of hair it looked magnificent and made Charlotte feel even more insignificant. It was evident as Fanny’s blue eyes scanned Charlotte from head to toe that that was her own opinion exactly.
But on stage it was a different story and Sally was proved to be entirely right. Whenever Charlotte made an appearance, despite her hedge-sparrow dress, or perhaps because its very simplicity emphasised her own innocent beauty, she was greeted with so many admiring whistles and bold comments that the dialogue was often blotted out and she was forced to say her lines over again. Everyone was delighted with this reaction, except, of course, Fanny, who glared furiously at Charlotte throughout. Once she almost tripped Charlotte up and would have sent her spinning off the stage had she not managed to snatch at James’s hand where he watched from the wings and be pulled to safety.
‘Take care,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘of the green-eyed monster.’
She knew not what he meant, blaming herself for her clumsiness, and with fast beating heart vowed to take more care in future. Sally, busily playing both the parts of Ursula and Margaret, noticed nothing untoward but found odd moments to wink or smile reassuringly at Charlotte to confirm that she was doing fine. And on one occasion when they were on stage together Fosdyke himself whispered in her ear, ‘You’ll top the bill yet, my sweet one. Fanny must watch out.’
There was no doubt that the play was a success for there was a good deal of fun in it even as Shakespeare wrote it. Fosdyke ‘enlivened’ it even more in his own way by breaking into popular songs at any opportune moment, though this involved drastic rewriting in order to fit in such melodies as ‘Greensleeves’ or ‘Love Lies Bleeding’.
Particularly popular was the verbal combat between Benedict, played by Fosdyke himself, and Fanny’s interpretation of Beatrice. But at the conclusion, when Hero’s virtue was proved, the delight of the audience was so excessive that it almost drowned the coming together of the main protagonists and Charlotte kept well to the rear of the stage, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and embarrassment.
In the interval, which allowed ample opportunity for the audience to replenish their dryness before the performance of the farce, Charlotte had never felt happier. She revelled in her small success and skipped from the stage to accept a cup of wine, seeing clear admiration in the eyes of Sir James Caraddon, an occurrence as exhilarating as it was unexpected.
‘I have to admit, Charlotte, that you were good,’ he said, the compliment tempered with surprise.
‘Did you think I would not be? Whatever I do, I make sure it is my best. Whatever I give, I put in everything I have to offer. It can be no other way.’
‘In this instance it worked,’ agreed James. ‘In some cases, I suspect that is an attitude which could prove dangerous. Sometimes it is safer to retain a part of oneself to protect it and keep it untouched.’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Charlotte, eyes wide as she disagreed. ‘I could never do that.’ And, as she looked up into his interested gaze, her heart gave an odd little leap and she wondered if perhaps he might have a point after all.
* * * *
Watching both James and Fosdyke busy congratulating Charlotte on her performance, Fanny gave full vent to her jealousy. She stormed into the dressing room and with one flick of her hand swept the table clear of all the make-up sticks, mirror, brushes and tacky jewellery. Staring at the mess upon the floor, she ground the broken shards of glass to dust with her heel.
Everything had been perfect until little Miss Wonderful had joined them. Any week now Fanny had fully expected to become Mrs Fosdyke, but ever since that prissy miss had appeared Wilfred had hardly glanced Fanny’s way. And damn her, but she could act and was not half bad looking neither in an insipid sort of way. Fanny pressed her scarlet lips together in a tight line of rage, and the blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. But if Fosdyke fancied Charlotte Forbes there must be more to it than liking her missy good looks. Wilfred preferred his women to be more inviting, if you could put it that way, than a young country wench fresh from the schoolroom. Charlotte Forbes might well have the winsome smiles, the soft tendrils of warm brown hair about her pretty face, and those mysterious green eyes so darkly fringed and enchantingly slanted, but that was not enough to entice Wilfred Fosdyke, as Fanny well knew. She
must have some other more tangible charm, well hidden but present for those with the patience to root it out.
And if Fanny had a virtue, it was surely that of patience. Hadn’t she waited for Fosdyke these past four years? He’d grown decidedly warmer of late and she’d not risk losing out now that she was so near to victory. Smiling softly to herself, Fanny now bent down and began to carefully restore the fallen items to the table.
Chapter Eight
Fanny confronted Fosdyke and the fire in her eye should have warned him that she was serious. But his head was filled with the profits he could expect for this night’s performance, the long term improvement to his future fortune if his plans went right. And his belly was warm with brandy. He chucked Fanny under the chin, squeezed her nicely rounded buttocks and asked why she looked so glum.
They were in a dark corner of the beer cellar, the others having gone into the kitchen for a cup of wine before the farce, and she took advantage of their solitude to press herself against Fosdyke, using all her undoubted charms.
‘What d’you want that whey-faced child hanging around for?’ she murmured, running a finger along Fosdyke’s jaw and skittering across his lips with a sensual movement that did not fail to arouse him. ‘We don’t need her. We never have. Sal and I can manage and young Peter don’t mind dressing up as a gal now and again.’
‘Yes, he does,’ said Fosdyke. ‘He’s getting too old play girl’s parts. He doesn’t like it. We need another actress but you know well enough I can’t afford to pay one. Would you work for nothing? At least Lottie’s prepared to.’
‘I reckon I give good service,’ murmured Fanny hotly, trailing her lips in the wake of her fingers. But the moment of erotic desire had been fleeting. Business always came first with Wilfred Clement Fosdyke.
Grasping her hands he pushed her from him. ‘Leave be, Fanny. While she wants to stay we’ll use her. What harm can it do?’
‘I never see you alone any more, that’s what harm it does,’ Fanny sulked. ‘And you and me was getting on so well.’ She flickered her long lashes, blackly stuck with charcoal and grease to make them look longer. ‘Shall I come to you tonight?’ she whispered. ‘We can make up for lost time. Not much chance on the road, eh?’ She kissed him lingeringly, reminding him of the pleasure they’d enjoyed between the sheets. But Fosdyke had his mind on more important matters for once and he was short with her.
‘Be done, Fanny. Can you think of naught else? There’s work to be done; now get in your costume and open the performance with a smile and not sulks.’
‘I don’t sulk.’
Fosdyke laughed, and it was not a kindly sound. Taking a hold of her arm, he twisted it up her back, jerking her close. ‘Make no mistake, Fanny, my love, no one is indispensable. Not even you, m’dear. So do as you’re told and mind what you say or you might be sorry.’
As he walked away she swore softly to herself, but the battle, as far as Fanny was concerned, had only just begun.
* * * *
‘What would you normally pay an actress to play Hero?’ James enquired the moment Fosdyke walked into the kitchen. Everyone was present, except the members of the orchestra, who were entertaining the audience with a selection of their favourite pieces, being the only ones they could play.
‘Is there any particular reason that you ask?’ Fosdyke was instantly suspicious, for Sir James had a nasty predilection for asking pertinent questions.
James did not respond, he simply asked another. ‘How many towns will you perform in before you reach London? And for how long in each?’
‘Avaunt, sir. Questions, questions, questions. What motivates them?’ Fosdyke cloaked his words in jocularity but James was not deceived. The man was displeased at being so probed.
James glanced across at Charlotte and, despite her look of uncertainty or perhaps because of it, continued with his theme. ‘It has occurred to me that if Charlotte were to accompany you all the way to London, she would more than pay her fare. Indeed she might very well be out of pocket.’
Now Fosdyke positively glowered. ‘You are surely not accusing me of theft?’
‘No,’ replied James. ‘Of usury, perhaps.’
‘James,’ interjected Charlotte in shocked tones. ‘How can you suggest such a thing?’
James lifted fine eyebrows a fraction as he acknowledged her comment before turning again to Fosdyke, a wry smile upon his lips. ‘If that is not so then I am sure you will be happy enough to answer my original question. We might then add up the sum you owe to Charlotte for her performances, which, if tonight is any judge, will undoubtedly draw the crowds for the rest of your week here. Add to that all the other towns you’ve mentioned, such as Bristol, Bath, Weymouth and so on, till we have an idea of the total sum involved and from it we can deduct the cost of a standard coach fare from Truro to London. How would that serve? Do you not consider that to be fair?’ James waited unsmilingly for Fosdyke’s reply.
Breathless with surprise, Charlotte waited also. She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not by James’s interference. Could it be that he’d changed his mind about her continuing on to London with the Fosdyke Players, or could it merely be another example of his pernickety morals? Though she had to confess that a part of her quite liked being championed by him, and she certainly had no wish to be exploited by Fosdyke or anyone.
‘I’m afraid you have a quite fallacious idea of the profitability of running such an operation as this, Fosdyke smilingly told him. ‘We are not made of money, Sir James - far from it - and take very little in terms of salary. Why, on some wet nights when we have no audience at all we actually make a loss. Now I’m sure young Lottie here has been delighted to have had your company for this early part of our tour, as we ourselves have, but once this week is over I am sure you will be happy to leave her in our very capable care. It was, I think, what we agreed.’
Before James had the opportunity to express his opinion upon that debatable point, the inn keeper appeared in the doorway to inform Fosdyke that it was past time for the second half to commence and the orchestra had played the overture five times already.
‘Then where is Fanny’? We cannot begin without her. Fetch her, Sal, and scold her for being dilatory. Do not fret, my good man,’ said Fosdyke, pouring himself another glass of brandy. ‘We will be with you directly.’
Fanny, however, was in no fit state to go on. Sally found her flat on her back beneath the deal table, an empty bottle of brandy still clutched in her hand.
The inn keeper became quite demented as he thought of the profits he’d so satisfactorily made upon his beer and porter sales disappearing in a trice if he had to refund half the ticket money.
‘Fear not, my good man,’ said Fosdyke expansively. ‘The Fosdyke Players are nothing if not flexible. For every part we have an understudy and the part of Lydia Languish The Rivals, which Fanny was to do, will instead be performed by our newly born star, Miss Lottie Forbes.’
The inn keeper looked doubtfully at Charlotte, as well he might, for she had gone quite pale with fear. ‘They won’t like it,’ he stated flatly. ‘They’re used to Fanny’s, well – er -special characteristics which she brings to the part.’
‘Not another word. I shall make that announcement to the audience myself,’ maintained Fosdyke, clapping the inn keeper on the shoulder as he ushered him out of the door. When he had gone Charlotte was beside Fosdyke in an instant.
‘How shall I manage? I don’t know the words.’
‘You have read the play?’
‘Yes.’
Fosdyke waved a hand airily. ‘What more do you need? Someone will have the words around somewhere which you can read on stage since you are a stand-in at short notice. We can cover any blunders you might make with a quick song or dance routine. You will love every moment of it, dear girl.’
Seconds later Charlotte heard him making the announcement of a change in programme to the audience, who did not greet the information with joy. For all Fanny was a bit brash, she w
as a fine figure of a woman and many were content enough to ogle her without having a clue as to what she was actually saying. Playing the sweetly demure Hero was one thing, Charlotte thought; playing comedy unprepared was quite another.
But there was no time to dwell upon the horror of it as Sal, stepping over Fanny’s prostrate form, pulled the dress she would have worn over Charlotte’s head, talking to her all the while. After a moment of blind shock, Charlotte began to listen most earnestly to what Sally had to say. If anyone could save her, Sal could. A book was thrust into her hand and then she was on stage, the faces of the audience a pink blur before her stunned eyes as she inwardly prayed that the cast would stick closely to the script for once.
* * * *
Through slitted lids Fanny watched them go, then got softly to her feet. Perfectly sober, for she had touched no more than one glass of the brandy, she meant to watch the undoing of Mistress Forbes with some pleasure. ‘Now we’ll see what a fine mess you get yourself into, Miss Prissy,’ she muttered vindictively. ‘When the audience pepper you with peas and sour plums, Fosdyke will be begging me to return, and then your moment of glory will be over sooner than it began.’
As Charlotte stepped out on stage for her first scene a voice rang out, ‘Where’s Fanny? You’re not Fanny.’ Her mouth went ash dry and her limbs started to shake. She could not do it. She must have been mad to have agreed. The book trembled in her hand and the words danced before her eyes. Charlotte found herself quite unable to take another step.
‘Fetch our Fanny,’ came another voice, harsh and demanding, and Charlotte took a step backwards. Could Fanny be sobered up and brought on stage? She very much doubted it.
There were whistles now from the audience, a loud hallooing and bellowing of protests, their earlier benevolence towards Charlotte quite gone. In their suspicion of being cheated, Fanny had become their darling sweetheart, and no counterfeit was acceptable in her place. How Fanny would smile, Charlotte thought, if she could see her about to make a complete fool of herself and be laughed at for her vanity of thinking she could act. These people knew her for a fake, and so she was.
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