“Blast you, Hunter,” she sighed resignedly! “Why do I bother with you?”
“Because I am your guardian angel and you are mine,” he replied lightly. “Now, to bed with you.”
At ten o’clock the following morning, Hunter and Sophie strolled across the wide expanse of Covent Garden’s Great Piazza, heading toward their important rendezvous.
“Isn’t it
grand?”
she exclaimed, gesturing to the Theater Royal’s colonnaded facade looming over the narrow path that ran between Brydges Street and Drury Lane itself. “Oh, Hunter,” she sighed happily, “’tis so
good
to be back!” He smiled in return and took her arm as they walked through the stage door. When she introduced him to the doorkeeper, they discovered that David Garrick; his partner, James Lacy; his brother, George Garrick; and the dramatist George Colman were all conferring in the Greenroom.
“Mr. Garrick received your note and is expecting you,” Mr. Collins, the doorkeeper, said amiably, casting a speculative look in Hunter’s direction. “Just poke in your head to see if ’tis politic for you to interrupt the gentlemen,” he advised. There’s great goings-on here these days,” he added cryptically.
Sophie and Hunter made their way across the murky stage dotted with scenery that Sophie realized was slated for
The Beggar’s Opera,
the production scheduled to open the new season.
Her heart sank at the sight of Mavis Piggott’s tall, willowy form just outside the door to the Greenroom. From Mavis’s determined look, she appeared intent on gaining an audience inside the chamber. At the sound of their approaching steps, she turned and, recognizing Sophie, shot her a sour look. Then, as she caught sight of Hunter, her brow smoothed and a charming smile spread across her voluptuous lips. The sight of Sophie’s exceedingly attractive companion made her suddenly loquacious.
“Escaped from the lunatic asylum, have you?” she commented coolly. “I wasn’t back from Dublin a day before I heard from Lorna Blount that some handsome gallant had appeared from nowhere to rescue you.” She cast a flirtatious look in Hunter’s direction. “Pray, don’t vex me by avowing you have
two
handsome gallants in thrall?”
“No,” Sophie replied curtly, as she realized there was no way to avoid making introductions. “This is Hunter Robertson, late of the Canongate Theater in Edinburgh. Hunter, this is
Mrs.
Mavis Piggott.”
“How’d you do?” Mavis murmured coquettishly.
She extended a graceful hand to be kissed and exchanged provocative looks with Hunter, who smiled at her as if they were indulging in some private joke. He brushed his lips against her white flesh and replied, “Charmed, I’m sure, madam.”
“Will you be at Drury Lane this season?” Sophie asked Mavis, hoping against hope this would not be the case.
“’Tis not settled,” Mavis replied, pouting her puffy lower lip. “As I explained to our dear manager at the end of last season, either I am given larger roles more suited to my talent, and see my plays produced here, or I will have to take an engagement in Bath. The manager there, Mr. Arthur, is quite anxious that I do.” She leaned toward Hunter conspiratorially. “But the Drury Lane pinch-pennies would not commit to such a plan before I departed for the summer…they have their favorites, don’t you know? However, now that Colman’s taking on the running of the theater while the Garricks are abroad, perhaps I’ll play Juliet after all!”
“Mr. Garrick’s
leaving
Drury Lane?” Sophie blurted, aghast.
“On the fifteenth of September, ’tis said, for Paris,” Mavis replied smugly. “His doctors are insistent. A breath of fresh air for the rest of us,
I’d
call it.” Her eyes appraised Hunter’s blue velvet coat and snug breeches and she smiled merrily as if Sophie were invisible. “But you must tell me of
your
plans, sir… theatrical and otherwise,” she added seductively.
Hunter smiled faintly at the obvious double meaning of her invitation.
“I’ve come to town, thanks to my wee friend Sophie, to meet Mr. Garrick… and perhaps Mr. Colman as well, if he’s to be the manager of Drury Lane this season.”
Before this nauseating tête-à-tête could proceed further, Sophie was, for once, gratified to see George Garrick, who suddenly appeared in the Greenroom doorway.
“Mr. Garrick, Mr. Lacy, and Mr. Colman will see you now, Mrs. Piggott,” George said gravely, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Sophie and Hunter. “We received your note this morning, Sophie, but you’ll have to be patient. We’ve a number of pressing matters to dispense with before we can wait upon you.”
“I see,” murmured Sophie, attempting to maintain her composure as best she could in the face of so many unsettling developments.
“If your interview with messieurs Garrick and Colman doesn’t produce employment,” Mavis said to Hunter in a throaty whisper, “I’d be delighted to forward a recommendation to my good friend, Mr. Arthur, at the Orchard Street Theater in Bath. A note left at my lodgings at Number Seven King Street will suffice,” she added with a smile full of unspoken promise. And with that, she swept into the Greenroom with George Garrick in her wake.
“What a
cow!”
Sophie muttered under her breath.
“’Scuse me?” Hunter asked, amusement infecting his voice.
“I just wonder
how
a middling actress like Mavis Piggott can claim such a patron as the manager at Bath. Lacy and Garrick do not hold her in high regard, I can assure you. No doubt this Arthur fellow takes her in his keeping!”
“You allege, I take it, that her acting skills are not sufficient to earn her such devoted admirers,” he teased. “But her face and figure cannot displease the audience. ’Tis better reason than some wenches have for parading on the stage. By the way,” he wondered aloud, “is there a
Mr.
Piggott?”
“Cuckolded and deceased, I presume,” Sophie snapped. “I imagine she’ll be prancing on these boards for yet another season,” she added gloomily, pointing with a sweeping gesture to the vast performing area and the yawning auditorium behind them, “as long as there are certain gentlemen who appreciate such strumpets with the wrong part of their anatomy!”
“Owww… the two of you are like scratching cats!” Hunter joshed. “Tell me, has Mrs. Piggott stolen away some young beau of yours?”
“I hope not,” Sophie muttered.
Ten minutes later, Sophie found to her dismay that the meeting with David Garrick and his co-manager James Lacy did not run as smoothly as she had hoped.
“I’m not sure how long we’ll be abroad,” Garrick announced to the small assembly seated in the Greenroom as George ushered Hunter and Sophie into the chamber. “My doctors say I need a long rest to ease this confounded gout. And to tell the truth, I feel the need of a respite after the tumult of last season.”
Garrick’s interview with Mavis Piggott had apparently just concluded. As he spoke, Sophie searched the woman’s face for some clue to her fate, but Mavis was at least a good enough actress to disguise her sentiments as she approached Sophie and Hunter standing at the threshold. She paused to bestow an enticing smile on Hunter before departing with a swish of her taffeta skirts.
“And as for engaging additional players to round out our company, ’twill be in the hands of my friend and fellow-dramatist, George Colman, here,” David Garrick was saying to Mrs. Piggott.
Garrick’s surrogate appeared to be in his early thirties. Coleman was known by virtually everyone in the London theater as a successful writer of farces and comedy sketches. His biggest triumph had been a full-length comedy,
The Jealous Wife,
based in part on Fielding’s novel,
Tom Jones,
performed to great acclaim with Garrick and Kitty Clive in the leads.
“While I am gone,” Garrick explained to all assembled, “Mr. Lacy will continue in his normal role looking after wardrobe, scenery, and receipts. Mr. Colman will handle the principal direction of plays. All decisions as to casting I leave in his hands.” Garrick noticed Sophie, who’d edged farther into the room. He smiled his welcome to Sophie and abruptly changed the subject.
“Sophie, my dear, how relieved I am to see you looking so much improved,” he said by way of greeting. “Mrs. Garrick and I were appalled to hear of your ghastly experience while we were away this summer. You are near recovered, I hope?”
“A bit behind in the rent for Ashby’s,” she replied candidly, “but otherwise… reasonably recovered, sir… thank you.”
“Colman, old chap,” he addressed the man taking on his duties as director of Drury Lane’s productions, “I do hope you will consider allowing Miss McGann to continue printing and selling playbills during performances. We made quite a tidy profit from her efforts last season. She also does a capital job of creating the large billboards for the front of the house.”
“I’ll leave those sorts of decisions up to your brother,” Colman said absently. “He’s promised he will relieve me of such tedious burdens so that I may concentrate on filling your shoes, my friend… a task that won’t be easy.”
“Ah… well, ’tis your decision. My doctors say I must remove myself entirely from the cares of this society and thus he recommends I travel to France.” He smiled at Sophie apologetically. “I presume this is your friend from Edinburgh?” he added with a curious nod in Hunter’s direction.
“Yes, may I present Hunter Robertson, sir,” she replied, still shaken by the news that Garrick would soon be departing for the Continent. “He’s played Shakespeare and is known as Edinburgh’s premier singer and dancer!”
“Well, Colman, perhaps you should speak to this young giant,” Garrick offered, giving Hunter’s extraordinary height an appreciative stare. “He might be useful in battle scenes and such.”
“I hope I may be permitted to lay before you the range of my abilities,” Hunter said quickly, addressing the temporary manager.
“Perhaps,” Colman said noncommittally. “We have nearly a full complement of players, I fear. You are primarily a singer?”
“Yes, and dancer, too, but I have played supporting parts as well… at the Canongate Theater,” Hunter reiterated eagerly.
“I have more than enough warblers,” Colman said flatly. He was of unusually short stature, and gazed up at Hunter’s impressive six feet with an air of resentment. “I thought I detected a slight Scottish burr. Pity.”
“Well,” Garrick said smoothly, filling the awkward silence that had settled between Hunter and Colman, “I fear I must be off. God bless, everyone… and good luck.”
And so, Hunter and Sophie left Drury Lane knowing little more than when they arrived. After a gloomy supper taken together at the Three Tuns on the corner of Chandois Street, Hunter escorted Sophie to her lodgings and departed with a vague explanation that he would be visiting friends.
The next morning, Sophie marched upstairs to the manager’s office and virtually shamed George Garrick into allowing her to continue selling playbills to the patrons each night.
“And I’ll also be happy to take notes during rehearsals and deliver your notices to
The Public Advertiser
as your brother had me do last season,” she said, smiling with false bravado.
“You won’t be charming me quite as easily as you did Davy,” George Garrick replied evenly, “but for the nonce, ’twill be one less matter for me to worry about. Mind that you report
all
your profits from the playbills, missy,” he added. Biting back an angry retort, Sophie simply nodded her head in a sham display of meek acquiescence. “Be on your way now,” George Garrick said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “The information on the playbills posted out front is correct. And see that you don’t lounge around here all day,” he said self-importantly. “I want the copy delivered to
The Public Advertiser
in time for the paper tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophie said, her jaw tightening. It took all her willpower to avoid reminding him that she had never once missed a deadline for his brother. Already, Sophie was mourning David Garrick’s loss.
With flagging spirits, she completed her round of errands and returned home by early afternoon to set the type for the first batch of playbills heralding the new season. She then spent the rest of the day giving the book shop a thorough dusting and arranging what she hoped would be an enticing display of editions of
The Beggar’s Opera,
along with a newly printed playbill announcing the opening night.
Finding she was not tall enough to shake her feather duster along the top shelves, she pulled over a chair and clambered onto it, stretching on tiptoe to reach a line of books covered with grime. At that point, her eye caught two thin volumes standing side by side that bore the arresting titles:
Treatise on Madness
by William Battie, M.D., and
Remarks on Dr. Battie’s Treatise on Madness
by John Monro, M.D.
Sophie slipped the books from the shelf. Both had been published five years earlier and detailed what appeared to be a heated debate between the two celebrated physicians on the proper treatment of madness. She leafed quickly through Dr. Battie’s treatise, her pulse quickening as she read his castigation of Dr. Monro’s practice of restricting patients at Bethlehem Hospital to a spartan diet in the belief that “depleting the system” would aid in restoring their wits.