Beloved Scoundrel (20 page)

She looked away, staring off to the other side of the room. “An interesting question. You make me wonder about the true nature of love. It seems to me I’ve known love more than once.”

“Most of us do,” the British actor said. “At least loves of various sorts.”

“Early in my life I lost the man I loved first of all,” she said. “Then David came along. I do not think I loved him in the same fashion but I grew to honor and cherish him as our marriage progressed. Where I had first respected him only as an actor I came to believe in him as a man.”

“I cannot argue about David,” Eric Mason said. “He was my own good friend.”

She sighed. “Then America. And a young actor with more romantic illusions than good sense. I made the mistake of thinking we might become lovers and share our loneliness. As a result I lost him as a co-worker and a friend. He enlisted in the army and may be dead by now. He became angered when he saw how much John and I meant to each other!”

Eric Mason said, “So John is the big love of your life at this moment?”

“Yes. I can honestly say that.”

“I felt so,” he said. “You know he is in great trouble?”

“I only fear for him,” she said. “I cannot condemn him.”

“You believe in his genius?”

She nodded. “He is likely the finest actor I have ever worked with.”

Eric Mason came and sat by her. “You wonder why I have asked you these questions?”

“Yes.”

“In all the time we’ve been together I’ve told you little about myself.”

“Little, beyond the fact you were a good friend of David’s.”

“That is all true,” he said. His eyes met hers soberly, “I have begun to hope that maybe you could come to care for me.”

“I do like you very much, Eric.” she exclaimed in surprise. “What would make you think otherwise?”

“I know you are my friend. I owe everything to you,” he said. “But I have wondered if we could be more.”

There was a moment of poignant silence between them. Then she reached out and touched his arm gently and with a small, sad smile said, “No. I fear my liking for you is of a different sort.”

“I see,” he said quietly.

“I hope I have not hurt you,” she was quick to say. “I need you as a friend and as an actor.”

He spread his hands in a resigned gesture. “Have no fear, I will not desert you.”

“You must make no false moves,” she told him urgently. “You have a brilliant future ahead of you. Mr. Barnum agrees with me in this.”

A strange look had come over the ascetic face of the British actor. He said, quietly, “There can be no doubt. It is for the best.”

“Thank you, Eric, for being a friend,” she said, touched by his acceptance of her refusal of his love.

His eyes met hers gravely and he said, “You do not quite understand.”

“No?”

“You see,” he said, slowly, “I have not been completely honest with you.”

“In what way?”

“I have a wife back in England.”

She gave a tiny gasp. “But you have never spoken of her. Never mentioned her existence. Why?”

His expression was cynical. “I wanted to get ahead. I felt it might be easier if my marriage were not known. I might have even made an offer of marriage to you.”

“Surely not,” she said, saddened by this revelation of such a flaw in his character. “You could not have two wives.”

“Many men do, especially when one is on the other side of the ocean with no knowledge of there whereabouts.”

“Have you deserted your wife?”

His smile was bitter. “Now it is you asking the difficult questions.”

Fanny said, “I think, all things considered, I have a right to know the truth.”

“Very well,” the actor said. “I did desert her. Times were bad. I felt she was better off without me.”

“And children?”

“One,” he said. “A little girl of two when I last saw her five years ago.”

Fanny stared at him. “Don’t you feel anything for your wife and child? Don’t you want to see them?”

“Yes,” he said. “1 realize that now. I don’t think I really wanted to become your lover because of it. I shall send back to friends in London and find them.”

“Heaven pray they are still alive.”

“Amen to that,” he said soberly. “Then life would be difficult for me.”

“You must do this at once,” she urged him. “In a case like this even a small amount of time could be precious. Is your wife an actress?”

“Yes, Myra was on the stage,” he said. “Not very good. But pretty. Maybe she’s married again by now.”

“Do you think she really valued her marriage to you?” Fanny asked.

“I think so,” he said.

“Then I don’t believe she’d marry again. She would be afraid to, not knowing whether you are alive or dead.”

He put his empty wine glass down and said, “I will go now.”

She rose to see him to the door. “You will write London tomorrow?”

“I will,” he said. He hesitated at the door, staring at her again. “You think I’m a cold fish, don’t you?”

She gave a sorry smile. “I think I understand you.”

Without warning he took her in his arms and kissed her fervently on the lips and held her to him. Then he almost abruptly released her and turned and hurried out.

Fanny closed the door after him with a bemused expression on her lovely face. She had long ago learned that to be as attractive as she was, could be a mixed blessing. Was it to be her fate that every leading man she had would fall in love with her? What was this strange trick of chemicals which made the allure between the sexes so overwhelming and often so pointless?

Eric Mason had called himself a cold fish. And he was in many ways. It showed in his acting, he could never quite cover that aloof, calculating side of his nature. But in her own way she wasn’t at all sure but that she shared something of the same quality. Those who did not know her might protest and say she was all warmth and romance! Had she not had many lovers? But, in truth, as she alone knew, only one true love in Sir George Palmer.

Her love for David Cornish had been a strange mixture of affection for him and for the theatre which he represented to her. And when he had died in that fearful accident she had turned to Peter Cortez for only as long as she took to learn that he had no real respect for the profession he’d chosen. Again she had turned to the unhappy, near-mad John Wilkes Booth with his genius for the theatre! She knew she would marry John if the opportunity presented itself.

So it could be that she was as cold towards love alone as Eric Mason had accused himself of being. Deep down there was that everlasting love for her actor father and the love for the theatre which he had imbued in her! A loyalty to something above any human relationship, and without which she seemed not able to have any perfect closeness. Her passion could truly be declared the theatre!

There was the one exception. The first love she had known before she became dedicated to her acting. There was no sacrifice she could not make for Sir George Palmer. She had made the supreme sacrifice of turning away from him and allowing him to marry another. She had put him out of her life. But he would not remain a stranger to her thoughts!

The next morning she and Eric met on the stage of the Lyceum with the other members of the company and began the final rehearsals of
The Maid and the Miser.
No one would have guessed by their easy way of working together, especially in the love scene, that on the previous night they had taken part in such a frank revelation of themselves. At the conclusion of the rehearsal Eric told her, “This is going to be our most successful play.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely,” he said. “It is well written.”

“Written by an actor,” she said. “One blinded in this awful war. I’m inviting him and his actress wife to join us here for the opening.”

“It is bound to be a hit,” Eric Mason said.

Her eyes met his. “But the way, what about the letter to London?”

“I’m going directly to the hotel to write it now,” he said. “And as soon as I hear from Myra I’m having both her and the child join me here.”

Chapter 10

The opening night of
The Maid and The Miser
was one of the highlights of the New York theatrical season. A most distinguished first night audience had been gathered by P. T. Barnum and they were wildly enthusiastic about the new comedy.

Barnum held a party onstage and his new circus partner, Bailey, was also in attendance as were Boss Tweed and many others. Champagne and oysters were plentiful and enjoyed by both cast and guests. It was a night of triumph for the blind Tom Miller and his wife, Nancy.

Barnum removed the inevitable cigar from his mouth to tell the young man, “Your play has life and movement! It is an actor’s vehicle. You have the magic touch! I want you to be at my office tomorrow morning. It is my intention to take an option on all your new plays.”

“I couldn’t wish for a better arrangement,” the young man with the dark glasses said. He looked handsome in his evening dress.

Lovely at his side, the faithful Nancy said, “We worked out every scene as he wrote it.”

“The labor shows,” Fanny assured them. “When are you going back to Washington?”

Tom smiled broadly. “Things are going so well we have decided to live here. After all New York is the scene of the main theatrical activity in this country.”

“That is wonderful!” Fanny said, throwing her arms about Nancy. “It means we can see more of each other!”

“And a better place for Tom here to work on his plays,” was Barnum’s opinion.

The play was an instant success. So many performances were sold out that they removed all the other plays from their repertory except
Dot,
which they played on matinee and for one night each week. The newspapers remarked on this change in their policy.

Then on April 3rd, 1865, General Grant’s bluecoated soldiers surged into Richmond. The grayclad Confederates fled in a dismal retreat. Six days later, on Palm Sunday, in a frame house on the edge of the Appomattox, General Lee, wearing the finest of swords and a fresh uniform, faced a haphazardly dressed but courteous General Grant. They signed the agreement by which Lee surrendered his army. The war was over!

There was a great cry of triumph from the North! Ringing bells, the crashing of cannon, the wail of factory whistles all mingled in one great symphony of joy! All over the North the buildings were draped with red, white and blue bunting. All places of business closed, the air rang with the tune of “Yankee Doodle” and every city, town and hamlet had a parade. Boys ran through the streets screaming with delight, and men and women filled with free liquor lurched drunkenly about in the city streets!

Yet the occasion was not without its religious observation. Fanny, with Nancy and Tom attended a great service in Trinity Church where all joined in singing, “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.” A glance at Tom showed the tears flowing down the cheeks of the young playwright! Tears from the eyes whose sight had been lost in his bid to bring about this moment of victory!

Fanny, like so many others in the North, thought little of how this victory was being celebrated in the South. To the losers it was a tragic day which could only lead to a loss of majesty in the grim years ahead. There were no cheers, no feeling of rejoicing. Only sorrow for the defeated and the dead who had died in vain.

It was stage manager Leroy Barnes who one night spoke of this to Fanny as she rested between acts. The veteran stage manager said, “With all our rejoicing, we forget how the Feds must feel. And their supporters as well, like poor John!”

She had not thought of John Wilkes Booth for many days and suddenly she realized what a desperate time this must be for him. She wished fervently that she could be with him and help sustain him through this terrible ordeal of defeat.

She said, “I wonder where he is?”

“Wasn’t he last in Washington?” the old man asked.

“Yes. He’s probably still there,” she said. “I think it a poor place for him. Especially now that the war is over. I wish he would return to New York.”

The stage manager nodded. “With his ability he could soon be a top star again.”

“I agree,” she worried. “Such a waste!”

She wrote to Major Furlong in Washington and asked if he knew anything about John Wilkes Booth and impatiently waited for some reply.

On the evening of Friday, April the fourteenth, Eric Mason came to the dressing room before the performance of
The Maid and The Miser.
He had a letter in his hand and she could see that he was overjoyed.

He said, “The best of news!”

“From London?” she asked, at once interested.

“Yes!” He held the letter up happily. “I have heard directly from Myra. She and the little girl are both in good health and coming to join me as soon as she can book a passage to New York.”

“How wonderful for you, Eric!” she exclaimed, rising and going to him and kissing him with complete abandon. Then she laughed and warned him, “Don’t take that as a hint to change anything!”

He looked shamed. “You know better than that. I’ve learned my lesson.”

So it was a happy night for them. Word passed around the company and everyone shared in Eric’s joy. He invited Fanny along with Tom and Nancy, who often attended the performances, to join him at Delmonico’s for a special midnight celebration feast!

Delmonico’s was, as usual, filled with a crowd of people celebrating one occasion or another. They were in the right spirit to join in the general roistering mood. The country was still drunk from the recent peace. Everyone stretched out for a share of the happiness.

Tom raised a glass and proposed a toast to the joyful reunion of Eric and his wife and child. Eric responded with a toast to the play and then all in turn toasted Fanny.

Fanny realized soon that she was more than a little drunk. Her head was spinning from the champagne. Some of the people at the other tables recognized the theatrical party and came over to congratulate them. It was a truly, wonderful occasion if one could only survive it.

Fanny teased Nancy saying, “You and Tom are at the theatre nearly every night. I vow you can’t get acting out of your blood.”

“It’s true,” the blind Tom agreed. “We work on the plays in the daytime. Then at night we’re both impatient to be in a theatre. When we aren’t at the Lyceum we’re somewhere else.”

“Why don’t you act again?” Eric Mason asked Nancy. “I hear from Fanny you’re very good.”

The petite blonde girl looked embarrassed and linking a hand with one of her blind husband’s, she said, “I do miss the stage but I want to be with Tom.”

Tom laughed. “That needn’t hold you back. I should enjoy sitting in a box listening to you, or waiting backstage or in your dressing room. I’d feel more part of it.”

“Yes,” Nancy said. “I had hoped Tom and I might have a family by now but all we seem to be able to produce are plays.”

“But they’re so successful!” Fanny laughed and everyone else joined in.

Suddenly a man in evening dress jumped up on a table and shouted for silence. Every eye in the place turned on him and. he stood there slightly drunken and shocked looking. A hush fell over the great dining room.

Tom murmured, “What is it?”

As if to answer him the man began to speak in a broken voice, saying,
“The Times
has just received a wireless message from Washington! A terrible thing has happened! President Abraham Lincoln has been shot!”

His words brought cries of dismay and protest from all in the restaurant. Fanny felt a sudden stab of fear along with the sadness the news brought her. She watched tensely as the man waved for silence again.

The man went on, “Lincoln was attending a play in Ford’s Theatre when a man broke into the box with the president’s party and shot him! The assassin then leapt to the stage and flourishing a dagger shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis!” He then fled and somehow made his escape. His exact identity is not known but rumor has it the man was the actor, John Wilkes Booth!”

“Johnny!” Fanny murmured in despair and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, Johnny, what have you done!”

The room was filled with commotion again. Someone called out, “Does the President still live?”

The man on the table shouted again, “The President has been moved across the street where doctors are in attendance. His condition is grave.”

Eric Mason took her by the arm. “Come, let us get out of here! There can be no more celebration this night!”

The actor paid the waiter hastily and escorted her to the door. Nancy and Tom Miller followed. At the entrance as they waited for a carriage a stout, gray-haired woman glanced at Fanny and then her look turned to one of near hatred!

“Aren’t you the actress, Fanny Cornish?” the woman demanded harshly.

“Yes,” Fanny said.

“You and John Wilkes Booth played together,” the woman said in an angry voice. “Isn’t that so?”

“It is true,” Fanny said.

“Theatre people!” the woman said with disgust and turned her back on them.

Eric had secured a carriage and quickly led them to it. He said, “This is not going to be a good time for the theatre!”

Tom complained, as he took his seat in the carriage, “Why blame us?”

Nancy said, “For the moment they see all of us in John Wilkes Booth. People can be so unreasonable! And who knows, it may not have been him at all. Someone else may have shot the President. Don’t you agree, Fanny?”

Fanny was lost in despair. But she managed, “I hope it wasn’t John! Oh, how much I hope it wasn’t!”

When they reached the hotel many people usually asleep at the late hour were up and milling about the lobby. The entire city was in a state of near panic. Eric saw her safely to her room and offered to stay a little while with her. She thanked him but refused.

Alone, she sobbed long and loudly. Then exhausted fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning she was wakened by the sound of bells tolling. It seemed that every church in the city must be sounding out the news! The only news which such universal grief justified. The President was dead!

She was having coffee and dry toast when Nancy arrived with a copy of the morning paper. The blonde girl told her, “It is almost impossible to get copies of the paper. I managed to get my hands on this one for you.”

Fanny rejected the paper and said, “Later! I can’t face it yet! It was John, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Nancy said.

“Have they caught him?”

“No. He managed to get away by some miracle.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes again. “They will catch him. It is only a matter of time.”

“Likely,” Nancy agreed. “He broke his leg when he jumped onto the stage. It is amazing that he managed to limp away in that great pain and escape everyone. People were so stunned they could not act for a time.”

“It will be the end of him,” she said. “Twenty-seven and his life is over.”

“He must have been completely mad,” Nancy said, sitting across from her.

“He believed in what he did,” she said sadly. “He truly thought Lincoln was a tyrant.”

A messenger came from P. T. Barnum telling her that all theatrical performances had been cancelled and would be for a time. Probably until after the funeral.

Nancy said bitterly, “It will be a sad time for actors. For all their applause and laughter they think of us as not much more than vagabonds.”

Each night Fanny prayed, that murderer though he was, John might somehow escape the country and live to repent in a foreign clime. The days went by and still he was free. But there were rumors that the military were close on his heels.

New York was silent and draped in the black folds of mourning. Just as the North had gone on an orgy of joy when the War was declared over, so now it went the opposite way. Bells pealed everlastingly and the drums were muffled. On April 21st a solemn funeral cavalcade set out from Washington. In the procession escorting the hearse along Pennsylvania Avenue a torn flag was carried, the flag which had caught John Wilkes Booth’s spur and might yet through the injury inflicted on him, be the means of the fleeing criminal being captured.

A numbed Fanny in a black veil stood with Eric Mason as the body of the murdered President was drawn through New York streets by sixteen white horses. Every building in the city was decked with black crepe and there was a long funeral procession with wreaths, floral decorations, all to the solemn beat of drums.

Fanny kept mostly to her hotel room. The yellow press now began printing lurid stories about John being an opium eater. There was also one feature about the love affair between her and the actor. They suggested she was also a Confederate loyalist and might have encouraged him to the murder. Eric Mason warned her not to go out alone.

Then came the fateful day of April 26th when Fanny had felt she had reached the end of her endurance. It was on this morning that the man she’d planned to marry was caught in a blazing barn in Virginia. Trapped, he shot himself, and was rescued from the flames paralyzed from the wound, and in a dreadfully burned condition.

As he neared death people at the scene tried to ease his agony. He once managed to gasp, “I did it for my country!” Then he asked that his paralyzed hands be held up and moaned, “Useless! Useless!” Then he died.