‘The Forced Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom.’ Jane read the words out slowly. ‘A tragicomedy by the celebrated poet, Mistress Aphra Behn.’ She turned to Betsy.
‘Do you know about this?’
Betsy shook her head. Without further word the two went indoors, to find a scene of cheerful disorder. At first Betsy assumed she had misjudged the time, and come late. But glancing up at the forestage, she saw no actors, only painters working busily on the screens. From behind the stage came the thud of carpenters’ hammers. But here in the pit actors and hirelings were milling about, talking animatedly. Heads turned as the two women entered, though to Betsy many of the faces were unfamiliar. Then a figure emerged from the throng.
‘Mistress Brand, and Mistress Rowe … how delightful!’
Aveline Hale looked radiant in a dress of indigo silk. The skirt was divided to reveal an embroidered underskirt of pale lilac, while the ruffled chemise sleeves were of fine lace. Her hair had been dressed in side-curls, and on her head was a net of little jewels.
To both women’s surprise, Aveline offered her cheek. When they had kissed she stepped back with a smile, which was devoid of mockery. ‘My dears, I’m come only to take farewell of the Duke’s Company,’ she gushed. ‘For I shall not walk upon the stage … ever again!’
Jane threw a glance at Betsy. ‘You mean—’
‘I mean my life has turned in a more … a more fitting direction.’ Mistress Hale looked at Betsy, and tapped her cheek with her small fan. ‘I’ll not elaborate just now – all will become clear!’ And the woman moved off. Betsy turned to Jane with raised eyebrows, but there came a male voice from above her head.
‘Mistress Brand!’
William Daggett was on the forestage, in his shirt sleeves. He hurried to the steps, descended, and came towards her.
‘It cheers me to see you.’ The man’s moustache looked as fearsome as ever, but his smile was warm. Indeed, a deal of strain seemed to have been lifted from him since Betsy had last seen him, poring over the costume of the murdered Joseph Rigg. That was almost a fortnight ago, and it seemed even longer. In the intervening days, Louise Colporteur had been confined in Newgate, then hanged with little ceremony before the prison gate. It was said that a great crowd had gathered to see the event, but that at sight of the prisoner – a slip of a girl in white, wearing a silver crucifix – they fell strangely silent. By the following morning her body had disappeared. The rumour was that Madeleine Colporteur had also vanished, supposedly returning to France.
‘I said, will you come and take a glass with me?’ Daggett was standing before Betsy, who pulled herself out of her reverie. She summoned a smile and nodded.
‘You too, mistress,’ the man said to Jane. ‘There’s a bottle of sack in the scene-room. I’ve told the new men to keep their thieving hands off it.’
‘New men?’ Jane enquired.
‘Will Small won’t be coming back, which is no surprise after what happened,’ Daggett paused, shaking his head. ‘Silas Gunn’s for a quiet life too, he’ll only stay till Christmas. But by then the ones I’ve hired will be fit for their tasks. I’ve set the old man to teach them.’
He gestured to the two women to follow him to the scene-room. Outside, the din of conversation continued.
‘What’s this play, The Forced Marriage?’ Jane Rowe asked him as they entered the comparative gloom. ‘No one’s said aught to me.’
Daggett found his bottle, and held out two mugs. ‘Betterton will be here soon,’ he answered as he poured out the sack. ‘And Mistress Mary too. You’d best hear it from them. But I’ll say this: it’s the first time I’ve stage managed a play writ by a woman!’
Jane glanced at Betsy, who was looking thoughtful. ‘I’ve heard of Mistress Behn,’ she said after a moment. ‘They say she’s one of the cleverest women in London.’
Daggett’s moustache twitched sharply. Fixing Betsy with a sober look, he said: ‘Then you and she’ll be well suited, mistress, and that’s no flattery. For it was you, and the good Doctor Catlin, that solved those terrible crimes between you, maybe even delivered us from further catastrophe!’
‘Oh, flap-sauce, Mr Daggett,’ Betsy said, embarrassed. ‘I think you exaggerate.’
‘I don’t.’
Jane was gazing at her. ‘Now it’s become clear who did what.’ She raised her mug. ‘You’ve earned the thanks of us all, Betsy dear. And I for one will make sure everyone knows it!’
So the two women clinked mugs with each other, and with William Daggett. And soon after, the stage manager was called away. They were about to leave the scene-room when there came footsteps from the direction of the Men’s Shift. Turning, they saw a portly figure descending the stairs. Downes the prompter faltered when he saw who was there, then puffed himself up and strode across the bare boards.
‘Are you well, Mistress Brand?’ he asked gruffly. ‘You know you’re to take second billing, after Mistress Betterton?’
‘Am I?’ Betsy raised her eyebrows.
‘So I understand.’ Downes glanced at Jane, who gave him a sly look. ‘You’ll have to mind your manners then, Mr Downes,’ she said with a smile. When the man bristled, she added: ‘Since it seems the playmaker’s a woman too. I’ll bet a crown she’s written a few good roles – for us harpies!’
Downes opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. With a sniff, he moved off and disappeared by the forestage door.
Betsy and Jane looked at each other, and started to laugh: the day seemed to be getting better and better. And having drained their mugs, the two ventured into the pit to mingle with their fellows.
And it was indeed a day of new beginnings, one that enabled those of the Duke’s Company who had lived through the terrible reign of the Salamander – and that of his lover, whom they had known as Louise Hawker – to turn their faces to the future. There were new actors now, hired by Betterton to take roles in The Forced Marriage. And with a lighter heart Betsy moved among them, offering greetings and gathering further news as she went. Mistress Behn, now talked of as one of the brightest new playmakers in London, would attend rehearsals, and she had indeed written some fine parts for the actresses. Betterton and his wife would have leading roles, Mistress Mary having been persuaded, with great reluctance, to take to the stage once again. Betsy heard this from Silas Gunn, who emerged from behind the stage to greet her.
‘It’s like a dark cloud has passed, Mistress,’ the old man said, peering at her through rheumy eyes. ‘Tom Cleeve and Josh Small, killed with poisoned pins – not to mention Mr Rigg. And poor Mr Prout stabbed to death – who could’ve imagined such?’ Silas shook his white head. ‘It’s why I got to thinking, while I was sitting at home. I’ve been doing this long enough. I’m for the hop fields in Kent, where I grew up.’ He gazed into the distance for a moment, then smiled.
‘You’ll wish me well, won’t you mistress?’
‘I will, Silas,’ she replied. ‘And I’ll never forget how you were my protector that day, when we walked the length of Turnmill Street and the women mocked you for my rum cull.’
Silas searched her face for signs of mockery, but found none. Instead, Betsy startled the old man by taking his face in her hands and planting a kiss on his mouth. Then she walked off, leaving him speechless.
Thomas Betterton and his wife arrived soon after, and the company gathered about them. But it was soon clear that their leading player was not in a festive humour, and in her heart, Betsy was glad of it. For at last she knew that the storm was over, and the company could resume work with renewed strength. She stood near the forefront of the little crowd of actors, more than a score of them, and listened as her old mentor spoke of the tasks that lay ahead. Briskly, he introduced John Downes to the newcomers, and gave instructions as to how the parts for The Forced Marriage would be distributed. Betterton and Mistress Mary would play the principal couple, and rehearsals would begin at once. So without further ceremony, the man wished everyone success, and moved aside to speak with his wi
fe. But Betsy was not entirely surprised when Mistress Mary caught her eye, indicating that she should join them.
Then having remembered something, Betterton turned back to the company and raised his hands for another announcement: the King himself, he said, had expressed interest in coming to see the new play!
In a mood of some excitement the actors drifted away, though some, like Betsy and Jane, exchanged wry looks. Betsy followed the Bettertons up the stairs. Together they climbed to a side box, where she was invited to sit.
‘Well, my dear,’ Mary Betterton put on a broad smile, ‘with all the excitement there has been, I confess I’ve not had a moment to speak with you. Perhaps you’ve heard that Mistress Hale is quitting the Duke’s Company?’
‘I have, mistress,’ Betsy answered. ‘And it seems I’m to take second billing to you. I’m most honoured.’
Mary Betterton blinked, seemingly unsure whether or not sarcasm was intended. Quickly her husband changed the subject.
‘Have you heard about Samuel Tripp?’ he asked. ‘It appears the man’s luck has quite deserted him. Of course, it was through no fault of ours that we were unable to play The Virtuous Bawd again, and that as a result he never got his benefit night. But what happened thereafter is entirely of his own making!’ The great man paused for dramatic effect, then went on: ‘He was caught in a compromising position in the rooms of a certain Mistress Ann Roose, by St James’s Park. Caught I should add, by a personage known to us all, who deputizes for the Master of the Revels.’
Betsy blinked. ‘You mean, Mistress Roose was Lord Caradoc’s—’
‘Precisely so,’ her mentor nodded. ‘The result of this ill-tempered encounter being that Mr Tripp has wisely taken himself out of London, no doubt to seek an audience for his plays elsewhere. As for Mistress Roose, she was last seen with her maid, the two of them loaded down with baggage and, somewhat tearful, boarding a hackney coach in the Haymarket!’
‘Thomas, that’s quite enough tittle-tattle,’ Mistress Mary said dryly. ‘The matter is,’ she said to Betsy, ‘we both wanted you to know that we are not ungrateful for your efforts these past weeks. You and Doctor Catlin, I should say.’
‘I can claim little of the credit, Mistress,’ Betsy said mildly. ‘Others, like Doctor Catlin’s servant, did much.’
Below, voices and the din of carpenters’ hammers drifted from backstage. In the pit, Downes was conferring importantly with Daggett. But Betsy’s thoughts turned to those who had played a part, unwittingly or otherwise, in the terrible series of events: the villainous Dart, who paid with his life; the slippery Daniels, who had vanished without trace; and Peg, who had looked death in the face alongside Betsy. She glanced up, to see Mary Betterton was rising from her seat.
‘We’ll talk again,’ the actress said shortly. ‘Perhaps when we are called to practise our first scene together.’ And with a nod, she made her way out of the box. As her muffled footsteps descended the stair, Betterton turned to Betsy.
‘She only wants the best for the Duke’s,’ he said somewhat lamely. ‘She always has.’
Only now did Betsy notice the carelines on the man’s face. Of course, she should have realized how the Salamander’s murderous spree must have distressed the man these past weeks. The deaths of Joseph Rigg and James Prout, not to mention Cleeve and Small….
‘The Forced Marriage will be a great success,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘I’m certain of it!’
‘It has to be,’ Betterton sighed. ‘Or we are finished.’
He looked away, but Betsy knew how to distract him. ‘Now,’ she said in a businesslike tone, ‘might this be the moment to enquire whether my wages will rise, with my new status?’
The other frowned. ‘Let’s see how well the new play does, shall we?’
‘Second billing!’ Betsy wagged a finger at him. ‘I think I should get twenty-five shillings.’
‘What!’ Betterton’s jaw fell. ‘That’s preposterous!’
‘And Mistress Rowe,’ Betsy went on. ‘Surely she deserves some reward for the loyalty she has shown to the company while the theatre was closed. Many would have taken their skills to Killigrew—’
‘Enough!’ Betterton exploded. ‘You try me to the limits, Mistress Firebrand!’
Betsy smiled. ‘Shall we say twenty shillings, then?’
In spite of himself, her mentor gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘I thank God for my periwig,’ he said. ‘For none can see how you’ve greyed my hair beneath it!’
Whereupon Betsy seized the moment. ‘There’s another matter that’s been troubling me,’ she began, causing the other to blow out his cheeks.
‘Then you’d best broach it now,’ he cried, ‘before I throw myself down the gallery stairs!’
But Betsy was serious. ‘Hannah Cleeve – Tom’s widow – you remember you sent me with money for her. I was wondering—’
Betterton frowned. ‘You think I should send her more?’
‘Well, I’m sure it would be welcome, for she has children to keep,’ Betsy told him. ‘But it would be better if you could find her some work.’
‘What sort of work?’ the other enquired suspiciously.
‘We need a new tiring-maid, don’t we?’
‘I suppose so,’ Betterton allowed. ‘But is the woman skilled with needle and thread?’ Then before Betsy could answer, he added dryly: ‘Not that it’s the prime requisite! When I think upon the character of our previous maid, that cringing little sparrow whom we all misjudged so badly, perhaps a robust temperament’s more apt. That and the ability not to be shocked by foul language, or troubled by the sight of men in their undress. Do you still think Mistress Cleeve will serve?’
‘I’m certain she will,’ Betsy answered, and favoured him with her sweetest smile yet.
At midday when rehearsals ceased, Lord Caradoc paid an unexpected visit to the theatre.
It was not a formal entrance. With a single manservant in attendance, His Lordship appeared at the side door and lingered there while the man went backstage, calling for Mr Betterton. Betsy and Jane, who were sitting on one of the pit benches sharing a pippin pie, rose to make their curtseys, to which Caradoc responded in perfunctory fashion. When Betterton appeared the two men went off for private conversation. A quarter of an hour later Betterton saw the other man to the door, but signalled to Betsy that His Lordship wished to see her. So with a glance at Jane, she got up and walked over. Caradoc gestured to her to follow him outside.
‘Mistress Brand.’ His smile was as winning as ever. Betsy stood blinking in the sunlight, all the brighter for being reflected off snow, then realized his Lordship was pointing. ‘It’s somewhat chilly for standing about,’ he said. ‘Would you care to step into my coach?’
Betsy looked at the magnificent coach which stood in the lane. Its four coal-black horses were blowing and stamping in the cold, their manes and tails tied up in red ribbon.
Caradoc’s coachman was already holding the door open, whereupon Betsy turned to his lordship with a questioning look. ‘What is it you propose, my Lord?’ she asked. ‘A journey, or something else?’
Caradoc raised an eyebrow. ‘I wished merely to speak with you,’ he answered. ‘Yet if you prefer to go back indoors….’
After a moment, Betsy drew her whisk about her shoulders and walked to the coach.
The inside was warm, the cushioned seats soft. Caradoc followed her inside, pulling the door shut. He sat opposite Betsy, removed his plumed hat and threw it down.
‘Well, my dear,’ he gazed at her frankly. ‘You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you?’
When Betsy said nothing, he continued in a conversational tone: ‘I thought you might care to hear some news about the Frenchwoman, Madame Colporteur. She has returned to France with the body of her daughter, so that she may be buried in the Catholic manner.’
‘How do you know this, my Lord?’ Betsy asked in surprise.
‘I’m well acquainted with Sir Anthony Griffiths,’ his lordship answe
red. ‘When I learned the whole tale I sought him out, and the two of us came to an agreement. It was through Sir Anthony’s good offices that the woman was able to leave.’
So, Sir Anthony had paid the woman off, once again. Betsy met Caradoc’s eye. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘now that all matters have been despatched, perhaps we may return to normality.’
‘Indeed.’ His lordship smiled at her, – and Betsy was quickly on her guard. ‘I would guess, my Lord,’ she murmured, ‘that you haven’t brought me here merely to tell me this.’
Caradoc’s smile widened, and before Betsy knew what was happening, she found his hand upon her knee. ‘My dear,’ his voice was soft, ‘you are wasted in the seething cauldron of the theatre. Surely you know that?’
‘It’s my life,’ Betsy began, but an impatient look crossed the other’s face.
‘How much do you know of Mistress Behn?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Do you know, for example, that she was employed on intelligence work by His Majesty, during the last Dutch war?’
The coach windows were steaming up, Betsy noticed. Surprised, she merely shook her head.
‘I tell you this in confidence,’ Caradoc went on. ‘Yet I’m sure you can see that the skills a woman of the theatre possesses may be turned to other uses?’
Betsy looked down at the man’s hand, which still rested on her knee. After a moment he withdrew it, but his smile remained. ‘I know you have ventured abroad in disguise, into environs dangerous to one of your sex,’ he said. ‘The Bermudas, for example, even the bagnio.’
Betsy chided herself for her naivety. Of course, there was little that happened about London and its suburbs that the wily Caradoc did not hear about.
‘You’re well informed, my Lord,’ she said.
‘I have to be,’ the other answered. ‘Though for the present I fill the office of Master of the Revels, there are other calls upon my loyalty to my King, which is why I ask you now whether you might consider using your considerable skills in the service of your country.’
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