‘Yes,’ I said.
He pulled me a little closer still and brushed a damp strand of hair from my forehead. His face was nearly touching mine.
Someone ran past us, jolting my shoulder, and we broke apart. I put a hand to my cheek, to wipe the mess of tears. This was a bad idea, because the hand still had a fair covering of blood.
‘I don’t want to look in a mirror before I’ve washed,’ I said. ‘I need a wash.’
He didn’t have chance to respond. The magistrate was now in the room and was calling for him. He apologised, gave me a little bow and went over, and I saw him begin to explain to Mr Fielding what had happened in the room. I staggered over to the side table and leaned against it, pouring myself a large glass of wine. I felt as though I had been battered by a storm. I wanted to sleep.
Instead, I was called to join Mr Fielding, Davenport, and with them, wild-eyed and desperate with shock, Mr Garrick.
I sat at a table and told them what I knew, while all three men listened carefully. Simmot, who still looked badly shaken, eased himself into the circle and pulled out a pen and some paper. As I spoke, he wrote. It all came out: the accidents in the theatre, Lord Hawbridge’s history, Molly’s brother, and how we had been wrong to suspect Joe Sugden. With a glance at Davenport, I carefully omitted Mr Callow and Lady Hawbridge from my report, aware that, beyond the intimacy of the table, the whole room was listening. No one needed to know their part. I told my story simply and without embellishing it. It needed no ornamentation, no dramatic flourish.
‘She killed Lord Hawbridge because she wanted justice,’ I said. ‘Some will call it revenge, but to her it was a kind of justice.’
‘She evaded justice herself,’ said Garrick, wiping a handkerchief over his face.
‘On earth, perhaps,’ Mr Fielding said. ‘But not ultimately. She took her own life, as well as the lives of three men.’
Simmot wrote the words.
I said nothing. Hawbridge meant little to me: he was a man who had used or abused many around him without sparing them a thought. But Joe Sugden and Ketch had tried hard to protect Molly, each in their own way, and she had killed them both. They had been good men. She would not, I thought, fare well in eternity.
There was a rustling among the company. Dinsdale had come into the room. He was staring about him in bewilderment, taking in the blood and damage and the mood of the gathering. The company parted a little and he found himself in the eyeline of Mr Garrick.
As if on cue, George Hunter limped in behind him, only to discover that he too, was centre stage in the green room.
Garrick rose from his seat, as if he, now, were the almighty, about to deliver judgement. A hush descended on his audience.
‘Get out of my theatre,’ Garrick said, with a voice of doom. ‘Get out, you snake, you Judas, you betrayer. You, Dinsdale, and you Hunter, are worms of the worst kind. You will never work in this city again. I will see to it. No one will trust you, no one will touch you. You, who were once my friends, are forbidden from entering this place for as long as I am manager here. And I intend to be here for a very long time to come.’
There was a cheer from the back of the room. The cheer was taken up by everyone else and the two men – who must have wondered what on earth had happened – were pushed roughly back through the door.
Garrick sat back in his chair, spent by his most personal performance to date.
‘Very fine, my dear friend,’ said Mr Fielding. ‘I’m sure that the bard himself will be cheering with everyone else.’ Garrick, too exhausted by everything, missed the light touch of humour in Mr Fielding’s voice.
Davenport laid a hand on the magistrate’s arm and spoke a few quiet words in his ear. I saw him nod and then he turned in my direction. The eyes were hidden behind his band, but he smiled.
‘Miss Hardwicke, I think your part has been played. And what a performance it has been.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I would be grateful to return to Berwick Street soon. I am not cut out to be a seamstress, after all, it appears.’
‘You may go as soon as you would like,’ said Mr Fielding.
‘I would like a bath most of all,’ I said to Davenport, as he helped me up from my seat. ‘And some sleep. And a decent meal and a gown that is clean and brightly coloured and not covered in blood, and someone to dress my hair—’
William Simmot appeared in front of us, as we made our way to the door. Davenport stiffened.
‘Mr Simmot,’ I said with a small curtesy.
He clutched at his papers, fingers still black with ink, and made a bow.
‘An avenging angel. That’s what you said. You were right.’
I gave him my best smile. ‘So it appears. But are you returning to Lichfield, as you planned?’
He pouted and stared at the papers in his hand. ‘I am. I came to tell Mr Garrick. I’m not cut out for London life. It’s too…’
‘Bloody?’
The skin was beginning to crack on my cheek as the blood dried, so at least he was no longer gazing at me in adoration. I had been right about the pistols and he had been wrong, and the puffed-up little man was sore about it; I could see that in the tight set of his jaw. He was not so observant after all and he knew that I knew it.
‘I wish you well with your novels, Mr Simmot,’ was all I said.
He stepped aside to let us pass.
Davenport took me as far as Covent Garden. Refusing to let me walk home in the state I was, he called a carriage and paid the driver to take me all the way to Berwick Street. Neither of us spoke beyond saying goodbye. He could not linger, he was needed in the theatre.
The carriage jolted me all the way, denying me the peace of body and mind that I craved.
When the carriage turned into Berwick Street, I steeled myself for the joy of home: Mrs Farley’s sharp words, Sydney’s disapproval, and the girls who were adorable and spiteful and annoying all at once.
I needed to be earning again. If I wanted to be independent, as free as Mr Simmot’s heroines, free to choose how to spend my days, I could not depend on a golden bird to rescue me. Only gold.
Chapter Forty-two
A week later
‘Mr Fielding’s kind regards will not pay my bills,’ I said.
Davenport was in my room, in my best chair, trying to explain why he was not carrying a fat purse from the magistrate.
I was furious.
‘Have you any idea how Ma has been working me these past few days? She says we’ve lost the moment to capitalise on my notoriety and she’s taking out her disappointment on me. I’ve barely slept; and I needed to sleep.’
His face contorted.
‘I’m sorry, truly I am sorry. It won’t help you, but you should know that I spoke on your behalf, but Mr Fielding said that, having already paid Simmot, he couldn’t spare anything more.’
Simmot had witnessed everything, and he was the sort of man who might weave fantastical stories for pamphlets if left unchecked. So, he had been specially commissioned to write the exclusive and true story of Lord Hawbridge’s murder for the press. He had been paid to write what Fielding wanted. What Garrick wanted. But he was a greedy little toad and had demanded a shockingly large sum of money. At least Fielding had made sure that the men of Bow Street emerged from the story with full honours.
I had not been mentioned in the piece, which I did not mind at all.
I had not been paid. Which I minded a great deal.
‘That’s the last time I let you persuade me to do your work,’ I said, shaking my skirts. ‘Unless Mr Fielding pays me before I begin.’
The edges of his mouth began to crinkle.
‘Then you’ll not completely rule out working with me again?’
I glared at him. He had made himself comfortable in my favourite chair and was toying with a glass of wine. He had removed his wig as well as his coat and hat. He had arrived in the blue coat I had admired, not the old brown one, I noticed. He’d had it cleaned. It was no longer covere
d in blood.
‘You enjoyed the adventure, even without the coin, admit it.’
I didn’t want to admit it.
‘It would have pleased me more if you had brought some with you. You’ve no idea how grasping Ma can be.’
He sipped his wine, smiling into his glass.
‘I called on Lady Hawbridge yesterday, by the way, I thought you’d want to know.’
‘And how is the countess?’ Even though I was cross, I was still keen for news.
He considered the question. ‘Physically, she is blossoming, as only a woman in her condition can.’
I expected this meant she was even more beautiful, but he didn’t say that.
‘But she is in a fragile state. I told her about Molly Bray, about Jack. It caused her some pain.’
‘It didn’t cause her pain when she told us that a child had been condemned for stealing her husband’s snuff box. She was quite calm about it then.’
He shrugged at this. ‘I expect that, when she told us, it was just another example of how he behaved. Now his behaviour has been revealed as the root of his death, the heart of it. And perhaps,’ he said with some greater effort, ‘as she is about to become a mother, she has a deeper appreciation of what the death of a boy might mean.’
I said nothing. He was speaking from his own grief, still fresh, and I did not wish to contradict him. But I did not need to be a mother to feel the injustice of Hawbridge’s accusations. Jack Bray had been little more than a child; the earl’s vain attachment to a trinket had robbed him of his life.
‘It’s Joseph Sugden’s plight that causes me pain,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like him, but he was wrongly accused, too, you know. What is being done to restore his name?’
He drank another mouthful of wine and laid his glass on the table. ‘You’ll be glad to know of this,’ he said. ‘Here, at least, I can bear good news.’
‘You can?’
‘I took this upon myself. Mr Fielding was busy with the journalists and busy in court. I went to find out where Sugden’s body had been taken. I expected that it would have been cast in a common pit, certainly that no church yard would have taken him in – a murderer as well as a suicide.’
‘Where was he?’
‘It appeared that there had been some delay at the undertakers. One of their men was sick and they were dealing with a family where two daughters had died the same day. Sugden’s body had been wrapped and even put into a plain coffin, but it had not been buried. I arrived in time to make sure that he was buried decently – and in a church yard.’
‘That is good news.’ Now I smiled, pleased that one small act of mercy had taken place – glad that Davenport had found the time to do it. ‘Thank you for that. Perhaps we might find a priest of his sort to pray for him. It’s what they do, I know.’
‘I’ll try my best.’
‘Thank you.’
He looked over at me, returning my smile.
‘How are your own injuries? I see your bruise has disappeared.’
I put a hand to my cheek.
‘Yes, thank goodness. Mrs Farley was not impressed at the state of me when I returned home.’ For some reason, my battered and bloodied appearance had been entirely my fault, as far as she was concerned.
‘You wouldn’t tell me what happened, when we were in the Rose,’ he said. ‘It was Hawbridge, wasn’t it? Did he hit you?’
He had heard Molly’s words, when he’d been standing in the passageway.
I told him the story. He was impressed to learn how I’d outwitted the earl, but when I described how Hawbridge had thrown me against the wall I saw his hands clench.
‘I was saved from any further ill-treatment by Mr Garrick’s cuff. I have cause to be grateful to that silly strip of lace,’ I said, making light of it. ‘Tom Firmin arrived to tell me that Garrick needed me to repair it just as the noble gentleman was about to kick me in the head.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, aghast at this. ‘I didn’t mean to place you in such danger.’
I shrugged.
‘I can handle myself, Mr Davenport.’ I looked around my room. I had learned how to keep myself from too much harm. ‘The little chamber maid in his house was less able. I hope that, for a time at least, she’ll be free to go about her work untroubled.’
From the room next door, I heard familiar sounds. Polly was entertaining and she was in a noisy mood. He heard it too. He ran a hand over his hair and looked away. Brown curls, in need of a cut.
‘Has Mr Garrick found a new seamstress yet?’ I asked, ignoring Polly’s encouraging squeals.
He cleared his throat. ‘Ah, I believe so. Although, the theatre is still closed. It’s in need of redecoration. I doubt Garrick will open again before the next season.’
‘Blood, fire, smoke damage and yet more blood,’ I said, pulling a shawl firmly across my chest. ‘I’m not surprised. I hope that the new season will bring better luck for him. He’ll be looking for a fresh crew as well.’
‘Dinsdale has disappeared,’ he said, turning his head away again as we heard the unmistakable thumping sound of a bed in use, increasing in tempo. ‘Hunter has gone too. Although Mrs Hunter is still in favour. They are no longer together, it seems.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ I said, becoming amused at his discomfort. ‘She might even flourish as an actress without him. I doubt she’ll ever be good reciting lines, but I’m sure Mr Astley will be generous to her.’
The sounds next door reached a spirited, and clearly satisfactory, conclusion. Davenport reached for his glass and knocked back his wine with what I thought was relief. I was tempted to make a lewd comment, but then he turned his head and looked at me.
I know that look.
It’s the regular source of my coin.
Seeing it on Davenport’s face made me tremble.
I had told myself that he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t think of me in that way. But there it was. I had half-guessed it, but now I knew.
Someone was coming along the corridor. The shuffling sound of a foot dragging told me that it was Meg, our maid with the bad leg. Davenport’s expression changed and he was his usual self again.
Meg tapped on the door and entered at my call.
She rolled her eyes when she saw Davenport.
‘Ma says you’re to come downstairs, miss. She says she doesn’t want you up here gossiping all afternoon, and that there’s a gentleman to see you.’
‘I told you,’ I said to Davenport with a grimace, ‘she’s not let me have a moment’s peace. Who is it, Meg?’
‘It’s Mr Dudley.’
‘No, no, he’s one of Emily’s. Ma’s got it all wrong.’
‘He’s asking for you most particularly. Ma wants you downstairs.’
I groaned at this unwelcome news. ‘Tell Ma I’ll be down in a minute.’
She favoured Davenport with one of her sauciest looks. ‘Mrs Farley says she’d like you to leave, sir. Mrs Farley also says that if you want to return in an hour or two and bring your purse, you can have a go with Lizzie.’ She giggled. ‘We all know you want to.’
‘Get out, Meg!’ I threw a cushion at her. ‘I’m on my way.’
She clattered out, chuckling, with me chasing her down the corridor, chiding her for embarrassing my guest. By the time I had returned, Davenport was ready to leave.
I met him in the middle of the room, clear in what I needed to say. Before he could open his mouth, I placed my hands on his chest – wanting to touch him, to hold him close, but needing to push him away.
‘Don’t come back with your purse, Mr Davenport. Not tonight and not ever.’
He said nothing. He only looked at me, his brown eyes steady. I could not meet his gaze so stared at his coat, trying to keep my voice strong.
‘Don’t… don’t become just another man to me. Please.’
‘No.’ He had his hands on my shoulders now.
‘I don’t want you to be another gentleman bringing his coins to my room. I would rat
her have you as a friend, a brother even, than for you to become just one more like Mr Dudley and the others.’
His hands tightened a little.
‘I know that.’
‘Will you be a friend to me? Nothing more?’
‘I will.’
We stood for a moment in silence. He understood me, I was certain of it.
‘Besides,’ I said, finally daring to look up at him now, ‘in this room I have some choice in who I entertain. If you come here brandishing your guineas, I’ll kick you down the stairs.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the action of a friend.’
‘Well, don’t give me cause to kick you, then.’
He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head, inhaling my scent. I pushed him away gently, indicating that it was time for him to leave.
Not wanting him to go.
‘Goodbye for now, friend,’ he said, opening the door.
‘Until the next time you require a seamstress, or house maid, or some such, you mean.’ I forced myself to give him a wide smile.
‘Until then.’
He was gone. I stood alone in my room for a while, breathing slowly. There was a man downstairs waiting for me. I would do what needed to be done, claim my coins and build up my funds. Plan for my retirement.
It would only be later that I would climb into the chair that Davenport had vacated, wrap my shawl about me and imagine his lips on my hair. This would be an indulgence, though. A folly.
I would only do it once.
Historical Note
As with the previous Lizzie Hardwicke novel, Death and the Harlot, this one blends historical facts with fiction. The magistrate John Fielding (1721—1780) was a real person, but the men who make up his team, including William Davenport, are all my own creation.
David Garrick (1717—1779) was also a real person and much has been written about him. In his lifetime he was painted by some of the most famous artists of the period; you can see those wonderfully expressive eyes in works by William Hogarth, Joshua Reynolds, and Thomas Gainsborough, as well as others. It is generally acknowledged that he played a significant part in making the works of Shakespeare so central to English (and world) theatre. Despite his great love and respect for Shakespeare, Garrick did, indeed, rewrite his words, and altered the ending of King Lear to make it more acceptable to audiences of the eighteenth century. Samuel Johnson, for example, claimed to find Cordelia’s death unbearable. Garrick worked with Nahum Tate’s 1681 version, which gave it the happier ending to which Lizzie Hardwicke alludes. Much of Garrick’s character in this novel has been drawn from what has been written about him: he was notoriously stingy in paying wages, and obsessively drawn to disputes with critics – which he played out in the newspapers.
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