The two theater men were sitting opposite each other at the desk in the manager’s office located above the stairs that led from the stage door entrance. It was a small, windowless chamber that adjoined the Treasure Room, a closet with a metal door in which each night’s receipts were locked. Sophie had been excited at being able to turn over nearly one pound fifty to George Garrick, and a similar amount in playbill profits for herself. After expenses, she was clearing nearly fifteen shillings a night—enough to buy a meal each day from the Half Moon Tavern for Aunt Harriet and herself, pay the rent for their leased lodgings, and make a few select purchases for the book shop.
“George and I were just debating the notion of placing daily notices of Drury Lane’s offerings in
The Public Advertiser,”
Garrick told her. “I think ’twould attract more business. What do you think, Sophie? Would you take charge of seeing to the notices?”
She bit her lip and glanced at both brothers.
“We’d pay for your services, of course,” Garrick hastened to add, misinterpreting Sophie’s blank stare. “Would a shilling a day be sufficient?”
Sophie silently calculated her new found riches… at least six shillings a week, plus what she could earn printing playbills. As she began to give Garrick her answer, he interrupted her.
“Of course, we would continue having you sell playbills at night, as that seems to be turning a tidy profit, according to George,” he said, glancing at his brother. George Garrick gave a reluctant nod.
“I’d be most happy to oblige,” Sophie said gratefully.
“Well, that’s settled,” Garrick said. “And now I must see about convincing a certain maturing actress to accept a part suitable to her age.” He hurried out, leaving Sophie to calculate how soon she’d have enough funds to take poor Aunt Harriet to a proper physician. Just the previous day, she’d come home from Drury Lane to find the woman sitting stark naked in her chair in front of the fireplace and chewing on the corner of one of the ribald etchings she had somehow retrieved from the trunk. Aunt Harriet’s condition was more severe every day, and no amount of kindness or care from Sophie could change that.
***
By the middle of March, Sophie had fallen into the pleasant routine of calling at Drury Lane each morning to confirm the next evening’s play repertory and casting with George Garrick. Any last-minute changes to the play offerings that switched every few days were duly noted, both for Sophie’s playbills and for the notices she personally delivered to the editors of
The Public Advertiser.
Sketch of a Fine Lady’s Return from a Rout
by actress Kitty Clive began rehearsal in late March. Following the first run through on the dimly lit stage at Drury Lane in which Kitty herself was to perform, Sophie, the prompter William Hopkins, and Mrs. Clive repaired to the Greenroom to review the most recent changes in dialogue. The chamber in which actors received their admirers after performances was actually rather dingy and uninviting during the day. A few tapers burning in several wall sconces provided their only source of light.
“Mrs. Clive, could you perhaps insert a line here that would explain
why
Mr. Moody has appeared on stage at this particular moment?” Sophie said tactfully.
Kitty Clive sat on a straight-backed chair next to Sophie and peered at the younger woman’s notations over her shoulder. Like Sophie, the actress was rather small of stature, with a heart-shaped face and a prominent nose, down which she gazed with great comic effect on stage.
“Do you agree Moody’s presence in this scene is unclear, Mr. Hopkins?” Kitty demanded.
“Some explanation would indeed help… something simple,” he said with equal tact.
“All right,” Kitty sighed. “This scribbling’s more taxing than one might think,” she complained good-naturedly. “Why am I not content simply to speak someone else’s words?”
“’Tis wonderful that you write,” Sophie volunteered enthusiastically, “but I’ve noted that precious little time is spent on readying new works for the stage.”
“The repertory changes so often, the management has other troubles to attend to. New plays must sink or swim in the rehearsal time allotted them,” Kitty replied resignedly. “And this incessant need for new works to appear upon the stage has offered we females a wonderful opportunity to cast our lot with the male playwrights.” She looked more kindly in Sophie’s direction. “And I thank you for your concern. You seem to have an ear for this work,” she offered thoughtfully. “I like your suggestion… now, what could Moody say that would make everything clear?”
Sophie was aware someone had wandered into the Greenroom and was listening at the door.
“I warn you, Kitty, my dear,” Mavis Piggott said archly as she sauntered into the chamber, “the little scribe, here, has already bewitched our manager. Beware she doesn’t bewitch
you
too. So much has the Great Garrick come to depend on her, his poor brother waxes wroth at the mere mention of the name
McGann.
”
“Mavis, we’re working here, if you don’t mind,” Kitty said sharply, returning to her manuscript.
“I’d take care, if I were you,” Mavis continued, poking a nail into the melted wax from a taper nearby. “Perhaps the sudden appearance of Miss McGann heralds a
spy
from our rival down the street,” she added spitefully, referring to the not uncommon practice of Covent Garden allies attempting to infiltrate Drury Lane for advance notice of the repertory.
Sophie felt her own sharp intake of breath at such an unsolicited insult. Why in the world had this Mavis Piggott taken such a dislike to her? Kitty Clive gazed appraisingly at Sophie for a moment. Then she merely smiled.
“As Sophie has just said… there is not enough time at either Drury Lane or Covent Garden to concern ourselves with anything other than getting the piece on the boards,” Kitty replied. “So, I’d appreciate it, Mavis, if you’d just trundle on your way. Now, let us see,” she mused, “Moody’s speech must explain why he has come upon Lady Asquith at such an unexpected moment…”
***
As hard as Sophie attempted to steer clear of Mavis Piggott, she could not avoid the woman entirely. One morning toward the end of April, David Garrick’s partner, James Lacy, was just leaving the manager’s chambers to attend to some crisis relating to wardrobe for the evening’s performance. He barely nodded in greeting as Sophie arrived for her regularly scheduled conference with George Garrick.
“That damnable jade!” Lacy muttered to no one in particular as he headed past Sophie. “She says the ermine on her royal robe looks like a ‘fox with the pox! ’Tisn’t
good
enough for a queen of England,’” he quoted in a high-pitched voice that Sophie took to be Lacy’s mimicry of female speech. “’Twas good enough for all the
other
grand dames who’ve played the role this season—but not Her Royal Highness!”
And with that, Garrick’s partner stormed out of his office. Sophie suppressed a smile, wondering what actress was going to receive an earful of his abuse. She gazed around the office and noticed that the shelves on one wall were piled high with manuscripts—staples in Drury Lane’s revolving repertory. Selecting a chair facing David Garrick’s desk, she glanced at another stack of plays resting on its leather-tooled surface. Someone was apparently in the process of reading and evaluating them for future presentation. Next to that pile lay open a handwritten manuscript titled
A Lady’s Maid; or Danger in the Dressing Room.
Beside the two-act farce was a half-composed letter in David Garrick’s distinctive hand to none other than Mavis Piggott. Unable to stem her curiosity, Sophie scanned the opening lines of the missive. After the usual compliments to the author for having the kindness to submit the work to him, Garrick then wrote:
However, I beg your indulgence to put forth a basic principle I’ve found to be of great import, even in my own attempts at play writing… that, to wit, ’tis of no merit to have clever dialogue and amiable characters, if there be no fable…
Sophie smiled to herself ruefully. The problem of having no “fable,” or story line, was precisely the dilemma that had plagued Kitty Clive’s latest effort. Apparently David Garrick was informing Mrs. Piggott in the gentlest manner possible that she was not, perhaps, the best of storytellers—at least in this particular case.
“’Tis
plot
that counts for an audience’s interest,” Garrick had emphasized during their conferences with Kitty. “If the audience doesn’t care what happens next, then all a playwright’s clever words are for naught.”
Sophie found herself nodding at the truth contained in Garrick’s soft reproach.
“And pray, what skulking little pilferer lurks here?” demanded a shrill, angry voice from across the chamber, shattering Sophie’s absorption in Garrick’s play prescriptives. “’Tis not enough that I am asked to perform in tattered capes and moth-eaten gowns, but now the plays I submit to you in good faith are subjected to the snooping eyes of
this
chit!” Sophie looked up guiltily and was horrified to see Mavis Piggott marching into the office with James Lacy trailing behind. David Garrick himself appeared at the threshold. “’Tis likely you’ll see an offering that mirrors
my play
at Covent Garden before the month is out!” Mavis concluded darkly.
Sophie stared at her, aghast. She had been a fool to examine the material on Garrick’s desk, but to be accused of out-and-out thievery or spying for the Covent Garden management was beyond the pale.
Before Sophie could get a word out, Mavis marched across the chamber and snatched her play off Garrick’s desk. She scanned the manager’s half-finished missive, her almond eyes
narrowing grimly. Then she glared at Sophie.
“I shall bring an
action
the next time I catch you snooping like this, you little slut!” she declared savagely.
“Mrs. Piggott! You will cease this display at once!” David Garrick said in a voice so chilling, it made the blond hairs on Sophie’s arm prickle. “If ’tis anger you wish to express concerning my opinion of this… this
submission,”
he said coldly, pointing an accusing finger at the manuscript the actress clutched in her hand, “pray vent your spleen at me, my dear. I would wager Miss McGann has no plans to pilfer the mishmash sentiment contained therein.”
Speechless with fury, Mavis glowered at Sophie and flounced out of the chamber.
“Please… I-I’m s-so s-sorry,” Sophie stammered, shaken to the core by the woman’s venomous attack and her own regret at having read what lay open on Garrick’s desk. “I did glance at what was p-private…” she faltered.
“I assume you are no plagiarist or a spy, but surely you will allow that my correspondence
is
confidential,” he warned sharply. Mortified by this deserved reprimand, Sophie flushed scarlet. “Lacy!” Garrick said to his partner who had remained rooted to the spot even after Mavis Piggott’s dramatic departure. “A bit of brandy might suit at this point, don’t you think?”
“Hear, hear,” he murmured. “I’m still quaking from that shrew’s flap about the ermine cape.”
As Sophie rose, chagrined, to make her departure, Garrick bade her retake her seat with a wave of his hand.
“Ah, the wicked stage!” Garrick said with a mocking sweep of his arm. “There’s always someone’s temper in a stew!” He narrowed his glance in Sophie’s direction. “I trust today’s theatrics have taught you an important lesson.” He walked over to a small cabinet on the wall opposite the bookshelves and pulled out a bottle of spirits along with several crystal glasses. “The theater thrives on competition among players and among writers, and yet the worm of envy can render the entire enterprise rotten to the core. The Mavis Piggotts of this world have always been with us and always will, don’t you agree, Lacy?” His partner nodded, sinking into the nearest chair. “’Tis merely the Green-Eyed Monster that’s got her in his paw.”
“But why would she be envious of
me?”
Sophie asked earnestly. “She’s an actress
and
a playwright, and besides, she’s the toast of half the beaux in London—”
“You have youth… and untapped potential,”
David Garrick said matter-of-factly, handing her a small quantity of brandy. “Mavis is quick to note such things. Although the woman has met with some success, I fear she is beginning to recognize her limitations in both departments. And she doesn’t appreciate competition.” He gestured to the pile of manuscripts on his desk. “The latest crop, mostly from amateurs,” he said with a wry smile. Then Garrick tilted his head and surveyed Sophie soberly. “The prompter, Mr. Hopkins, tells me your suggestions to Kitty Clive were on the mark.”
“He did?” Sophie responded, amazed that her contributions had won her any notice.
“If you are willing, I’d like you to read these farces,” he announced, indicating the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. “Tell me whether you think they’re worthy or egregiously bad or somewhere in between. They don’t have to be brilliant—just
passable.
I’ve worked with many a playwright who had just one good piece in ’im!”