‘Fanny. I promise you that I was merely commiserating with Charlotte over a family problem she has. There is nothing between us, nothing at all. I would not for a moment have Charlotte’s reputation besmirched in any way by unkind, and in this case untrue, gossip, you understand?’
Listening, Charlotte felt no sense of relief. She found that she wouldn’t have minded in the least if Fanny did think there was something between them. She wished very much that there were. But the idea was plainly so horrific to Sir James Caraddon that he was making an absolute meal of defending their innocence.
‘I reckon I do, sir,’ said Fanny, evidently puzzled. ‘I understand.’
Charlotte wished that she could say the same herself but she rather thought she would never learn to fully understand Sir James Caraddon, not in a thousand years.
* * * *
Later that same night Fosdyke decided that their next and final production of the tour was to be Hamlet. He had saved this play until Carl was fit enough to take part, and until he had his plans carefully made. Even so, it would be difficult enough to cast. Yet he was determined to do so. It was essential. Fanny, however, was proving difficult.
‘I’ll not do it,’ she reiterated, not for the first time that night. She would have stormed out of bed and scratched Fosdyke’s eyes out, only she hadn’t a stitch on and he was not a man to take kindly to histrionics. ‘Let her play the man, I’ll not.’
Fosdyke smiled his frosty, white toothed smile that was almost a leer while Fanny paused for thought. It wouldn’t do to alienate him too much. She manufactured a pout. ‘You know I hate parts where I must wear breeches. Why cannot she play Horatio, and I Ophelia? It’s not fair.’
‘Because, my sweet one, as well as making a finer looking Horatio since you are taller and have better legs than young Lottie, you are by far the better actress.’ This was totally untrue. The truth was that Lottie would play Ophelia with greater sincerity than the brash efforts of Fanny, who was, in Fosdyke’s estimation, getting too old to play the part in any case. But Fanny preened herself with pleasure at the praise, which was ever more scarce these days. ‘Any foolish female can simper and drape herself about a stage as Ophelia,’ Fosdyke said.
‘And die,’ recalled Fanny, remembering that Ophelia drowned in act four.
‘Quite so. Horatio is a much bolder part and lasts right through to the end of the play. He is in fact one of the few persons left alive.’
Fanny was slightly mollified by this prospect. She loved endings when the audience applauded her at the closing curtain. ‘And you will play Hamlet, of course.’
‘Naturally. Carl will play Laertes, Ophelia’s brother. Phil can be King Claudius, Hamlet’s stepfather, and Sally will make an excellent Queen Gertrude, Hamlet’s poor foolish mother. Which leaves us with Polonius, father to Laertes and traitor to Hamlet.’ Fosdyke smiled again and the teeth positively glittered in the darkness of the bedroom. ‘It is a small part and I intend to inveigle our young friend Sir James to step upon the boards again.’
Fanny was aghast, and flopped back against the pillows in exasperation. ‘You must be mad. Caraddon can’t act for toffee. If you must give him a part let him be Fortinbras, who only comes in at the end.’
‘No,’ said Fosdyke with soft emphasis. ‘It is essential that he play Polonius.’ He moved over to the bed and looked down at Fanny. She was a particularly stupid woman, and even her much vaunted charms were fading. But she still had her uses. He must keep her sweet for a while longer.
Meeting his blue gaze, Fanny shivered. ‘You got some scheme afoot?’ she daringly asked. She always found Fosdyke at his most exciting when he was planning something.
Fosdyke pulled back the sheets and got in beside Fanny with scarcely a glance at her voluptuous charms, his mind on other things. ‘It may become necessary for you to make a short trip for me, into London. We ain’t far away now.’
Fanny was all agog. ‘What sort of trip?’
‘To call upon a lady. She may be able to help rid us of our nuisance. Her name is Lady Susanna Brimley and she and Sir James have an understanding of sorts. I think it would be useful if you were to inform her that he was growing a mite too attached to a certain young miss. You can point out the danger of losing her lover and future husband if she does not call him to heel, as I am sure she is well able to do. She must be worth a pretty penny.’ Fosdyke was so engrossed with his plans and his own view of the situation that he paid no heed to Fanny’s reaction. She too was anxious to be rid of a nuisance, but not the same nuisance. Nevertheless she listened avidly to Fosdyke’s instructions. There might be some way she could twist it to her own advantage and rid themselves of both Charlotte and James.
Later that night, as she returned to the bedroom she shared with Charlotte, she dropped her first dose of acid in her room-mate’s ear.
‘Sorry I interrupted you earlier, when you were - y’know,’ she said as she climbed into bed.
Charlotte had been asleep until Fanny woke her as it must have been well past midnight. ‘There was nothing in it, I do assure you. What Sir James said was perfectly true. I have a family problem which has upset me, that’s all. There is absolutely nothing between us,’ Charlotte repeated, though it pained her to do so. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Just as well,’ said Fanny pulling the covers up over her head before adding, ‘Since he’s betrothed to a lady already, or so I do hear tell. You’d be bound to get hurt, then, wouldn’t you?’
Charlotte was devastated. She should have realised of course. A man of Sir James Caraddon’s calibre naturally looked for a wife in the higher echelons of society. And one would not be difficult to find, for he was undeniably good looking, and no doubt with those he loved his domineering ways would be termed chivalry. If she was honest she’d been glad enough of it herself on numerous occasions. But a wild hope had been born in her and nurtured by his lovemaking. Hadn’t he said that any man would want her? Now she had to accept that what he had told Fanny yester-evening had been no less than the truth. There could be nothing between them because he already had a betrothed, in London. He might want her as a woman, but that did not mean that he loved her, or that he thought of her as a possible wife. Charlotte told herself that the pain she felt below her heart was no more than hurt pride, though she knew that to be false.
She lay on her back staring into the darkness. She was in love with him. She had loved him from the first moment she had seen him, so tall and strong, his dark eyes challenging her in that hay barn, which seemed a lifetime ago. But what could she do about it? A single tear fell from the corner of one eye and slid down her cheek. Charlotte angrily brushed it away. He must never know. She would keep her dignity at least.
Tomorrow they would be within easy distance of London and she would have no further need of his nursemaiding. She would be her own person again and make it perfectly plain to Sir James Caraddon that she needed no further help from him. To stay at his town house would do nothing for her peace of mind whatsoever, an offer he had no doubt made out of pity, or an odd sense of duty, neither of which she needed.
Nothing would induce her to accept.
Chapter Ten
The theatre where they were to play Hamlet was the largest they had visited to date. It belonged to a Mr Levenstam and, though still very much a small amateur theatre, situated as it was between a fish shop and a public house, most convenient for the clientele, it was none the less better fitted out than any they had performed in previously. For once there was a proper stage, albeit a small one, with oil lamps instead of candles across the apron. The traditional green curtains were already in place, and flats and side-screens could be slid into place along grooves set in the stage floor. Charlotte could see that the advantages were great, for the scenes could not only be quickly and smoothly changed but also give a whole new dramatic dimension to the play in that an actor could enter as if from another room, or between trees in a woodland grotto. The prospect was exciting.
Mr Lev
enstam, a reed thin gentleman with long fair hair and a gentle voice, welcomed them in the green room with tea and coffee as soon as they had finished unloading their wagon. This small courtesy was a new experience for the Fosdyke Players and they revelled in it.
It was in this room, with its traditional green baize carpet, damask walls and full-length mirror for checking the drape of one’s dress before going on stage, that Fosdyke handed out the parts for the next night’s performance.
‘But I don’t want to be a ghost,’ protested thirteen year old Peter. ‘He hardly says anything. It’s time I had a proper part.’
‘This is a proper part, my boy,’ said Fosdyke expansively. ‘Most proper. The ghost may not say a great deal but think of the costume and the status of the part. You are the dead king upon whom the whole play hinges. And it will also leave you ample time to act as call boy and prompt, for which valuable service, Peter, we are ever indebted to you.’
Peter’s eyes lit up. ‘Will that mean I’ll be getting more pay, then, for doing three jobs?’
Fosdyke chortled with laughter. ‘What a wag! We’ll have to see, eh? We’ll have to see. Fanny has volunteered to play Horatio since she looks so well in breeches,’ he continued blithely, and grinned at Fanny who attempted a weak smile in response.
Charlotte was surprised, and delighted, to find herself given the important part of Ophelia, but not half so startled as James was to find himself included yet again. It took considerable pressure from everyone, though this time not from Charlotte, to persuade him to agree, if against his better judgement.
‘It is not at all onerous, good sir,’ Fosdyke assured him, ‘though you will need to wear a small beard, for Polonius is an old man. But it is over by the third act.’ As you will discover, thought Fosdyke.
They walked through the moves as no one cared much for rehearsals and avoided them wherever possible. Charlotte spent the intervening period before the opening night learning her lines and persuading any actors willing to humour her to go over pieces with her.
She did not see Fosdyke or Fanny again until the performance was about to begin, when they both swept in, fully costumed and made up, Fosdyke looking mighty pleased with himself and Fanny more disgruntled than ever.
‘Whatever can be the matter with her?’ whispered Charlotte to Sally. ‘Is she blaming me for playing Ophelia, do you think?’
‘Don’t you worry over her, my love,’ scoffed Sally. ‘She’d be jealous if a crow walked over the stage before her.’
Fanny in fact was smarting from a recent conversation with Fosdyke in which he had told her that she needn’t return immediately after she’d made her trip to Lady Susanna’s house the next day. ‘You settle yourself in our usual quarters and I’ll meet up with you there as soon as I can,’ Fosdyke had told her.
‘Why must I go tomorrow?’ Fanny was appalled. ‘I thought you needed me here to play Horatio. We’re booked for four nights.’
‘I know it, but once young Peter has watched you perform Horatio this evening I intend to give him the chance. His big moment, eh, which he so longs for?’ Fosdyke took her casually by the throat, stroking it with his fingers and thumb, and smiled down into her darkly shadowed eyes. ‘And what you have to do is of far greater importance. Besides, Lady Susanna may not be at home the first time you call. Society ladies lead a busy life. Besides which she’ll not be panting to let you in. You’ll have to use some of this great acting talent of yours, Fanny, and pretend to be a lady of note yourself, even of mystery, so that she feels compelled to see you. Can you do that, do you think?’ The hand had tightened slightly and, not risking her voice, Fanny had managed a slight nod.
But now, looking at Charlotte in her flowing white gown that draped her slender figure so beguilingly, Fanny entertained grave misgivings about leaving Fosdyke even for one night, let alone four. If she got to see Lady Susanna right away, dared she defy him and return? She thought not. If he said to wait for him in London, she had little choice but to obey.
If only Miss Prissy had injured her ankle instead of Carl, who still walked with a limp except on stage when he suffered his pain in silence as all good actors did. She glared across at Charlotte, noting how her cheeks glowed pink and how she coyly turned her gaze from Sir James Caraddon who was attempting to talk with her. Hatred and jealousy burned in Fanny’s breast. Why should the chit have all the men kowtowing to her? She wished the girl could break her damned neck, or really and truly drown just as the crazed Ophelia did. It was a pity the scene took place off stage or she might well be tempted to help her to it.
‘Are you ready, Horatio?’ called Fosdyke brightly.
‘Aye,’ grumbled Fanny, tugging at her hose with peevish fingers. ‘I’m ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Then let the play proceed.’
The orchestra was playing the overture, the bell for the opening scene was rung and three chords from the orchestra answered. The first scene began. James, watching from the wings, found himself grudgingly admiring Fosdyke’s portrayal of Prince Hamlet. The actor manager’s voice was potent, with a resonance which reached every corner of the theatre and held even those who usually fidgeted in the pits spellbound. His large square hands, with their thick bony knuckles were yet eloquent and expressive, transmitting the message of grief and melancholy felt by the Danish prince at the recent death of his father and the swift remarriage of his mother to his uncle, King Claudius.
Looking about him, James could see no sign of Charlotte. He’d been puzzled by her behaviour since the night Fanny had encountered them chaste but guilty at being so caught upon Charlotte’s bed. James got the feeling that Charlotte was avoiding him. Did she object to his kisses so very much? At the time she had accepted them readily enough-even passionately, he had thought. But now she had gone cold on him and would scarcely look him in the eye. Could she not see that he was here only because of her? He didn’t know why he’d stayed so long. It was plainly a mistake. Yet he could not bring himself to leave. Why was that? It didn’t even seem to matter if some of his old friends saw him here. There was no denying that Charlotte Forbes had a most dramatic, if he might use the word, effect upon him. Even his remembered vision of Lady Susanna was growing dim. He could barely summon up her face for it kept getting confused with that of a very different one altogether, one with natural brown hair curling softly about a gentle face, with no sign of the fashionably powdered formal styles, nor of any rouge upon her rosy cheeks. James had discovered that he far preferred this natural look. But where was Charlotte? He would look for her; make sure she was all right.
As he quietly moved away from the wings Sal appeared from the green room ready for her entrance. ‘Have you seen Charlotte?’ James asked her.
‘She’s sitting in the green room,’ said Sal. ‘Looking a bit peaky, I thought. But naught to worry about,’ she said with a laugh on seeing James’s sudden expression of anxiety. ‘Only first night nerves.’
Not satisfied, James went in search of her. She wasn’t in the green room. He tapped quietly on the dressing room door but there was no answer. Peter, coming off stage after his first scene, saw him and came over. ‘Miss Charlotte says she don’t want to be disturbed till it’s time for her call,’ Peter told him.
James glowered at the boy.
‘Taint my fault. No need to look so fierce. Said she wanted to rest. And you’ll be on in a minute yerself.’
James knocked again but when there was still no reply, he gave up. He could hardly force himself upon her. He did manage to snatch a brief word with Charlotte between Scene Two and Scene Three, just before she went on. She had come to sit in the green room to wait for her call and he found her there, head hung low, hands clasped loosely in her lap. His heart turned over for she looked a picture of absolute misery.
‘Charlotte, aren’t you well?’
She looked up at him in surprise. ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ she said stiffly, getting up and walking away. This tactic baffled James so much that he strode
after her and, catching her wrist, spun her round to face him.
‘What in damnation is the matter with you? You’ve hardly spoken a word these last two days.’
Charlotte resolutely drew in her breath, not wanting to be caught out by the way her heart pitter-patted when he touched her. ‘I’ve been learning my lines. I’ve had no time for chat,’ she said rather pertly.
He softened slightly, knowing how important it was to her to perform to the very highest standard. ‘And you are not angry with me?’
She looked at him wide eyed, as if she had not the least idea what he meant, although she knew very well. ‘Why should I be’?’
He was still holding her wrist and he slid his hand up her arm, wanting very badly to pull her into his arms. She looked so soft, so vulnerable in her white flowing gown. Yet even now he could feel her resistance, a desire to be free of his hold. ‘I thought perhaps I had hurt you the other night with what you considered to be my improper behaviour.’ He tried to sound teasing, to coax a smile from her, but there was no response.
‘It is perfectly normal, I believe, for gentlemen to proposition actresses,’ she said coldly. ‘Fanny has warned me of it many times. However, you needn’t worry, Sir James; you convinced her that there was nothing at all improper about your action. It was simply your kindly good nature. And I fully understand the reason for your behaviour.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Ophelia,’ called Peter in his off-stage whisper and Charlotte attempted to snatch her arm from James’s hold.
‘I must go,’ she hissed as James held fast, his fingers curling about her arm like a vice, and his mouth came down close to her ear.
‘Don’t you dare accuse me of propositioning you when I have done no such thing. You would be in no doubt if that were the case. Nor am I quite so unselfishly sympathetic as you seem to think.’
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