“’Tis immensely improved,” Roderick commented one day when they were having tea in the Pump Room itself. Tables dotted one end of the large chamber and a stringed quartet played on a balcony overhead in counterpoint to the splashing mineral water cascading from the famous Bath cistern. While they chatted and sipped their tea, a progression of invalids arrived on crutches or in wheeled chairs to imbibe the murky green liquid. “Who knows, Peter?” he said mockingly. “You may find yourself with a genuine profession. You’re lucky to have found an author willing to put herself at your disposal.”
“I’m not a proven scribe,” Sophie said modestly, but she was nevertheless pleased by Darnly’s good opinion. The man was highly educated, despite his apparent preference for a life of idleness, and she valued his judgment on matters of literature and culture. “I think ’tis coming along remarkably well,” she opined. She toyed with her fork, poking a tine into the rich crust of her treacle tart. “We still must solve the problem of revealing the truth about Sir Bottomley’s deceased wife in the last act,” she mused, even as her thoughts drifted from the idle chatter.
“You’ll devise something,” Peter replied, focusing his attention on a group of fashionables who had arrived for tea at the next table. “The sooner we post this play to Drury Lane, the better for our purse, eh what?”
The need for funds was certainly Sophie’s motivation for completing the assignment, and she toiled long and hard over the last act of
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.
Peter and his wealthy friend had saved her the expense of her meals, but the money she had earned as an Orange Girl and as Hunter’s dancing partner went directly to pay for the other necessities of life, including Mrs. Hervey’s lodgings. Sophie worried that she would have nothing left by the time she intended to leave for London, at the end of May.
Lorna had written that she was just managing to cover expenses from sales at Ashby’s Books, a fact that relieved some of Sophie’s anxiety over funds.
I fear I’ve virtually no gossip, nor have I even heard mention in recent months of anything concerning your pamphlet. Dr. Monro is silent, so I hope this means ’twill be safe for you to return soon.
As for your Aunt Harriet, I do apologize for having no news to convey, but I fear to stir up trouble where none exists by visiting Bedlam.
Ashby’s muddles along, as do I as your printer’s mate. G. Garrick is as sour as ever, but Mary Ann Skene and I continue to ply your playbill…
Sophie dispatched a letter of grateful thanks, and subsequently doubled her efforts to craft the comedy into a work she hoped would appeal to the managers at Drury Lane.
By mid-April, less than a week before John Arthur planned to reopen Orchard Street for a month of performances leading up to the summer hiatus, Sophie had finished rewriting, editing, and copying
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.
“If it satisfies you, Peter,” she said at last, handing him the neatly penned sheaves, “I think we should immediately send it to Colman for his consideration for next season’s repertory.”
After a good night’s sleep, Sophie awoke refreshed and buoyed by a tremendous sense of accomplishment. She and Peter had actually written a
play!
She arrived at Darnly’s flat to find him penning a letter at his desk and Peter bundling up the precious manuscript into a packet wrapped with thin cord.
“I have written a note to Lacy to include in the packet you’re sending to Drury Lane,” Roderick announced, dusting his missive with sand to dry the ink, folding it, and sealing it with his waxed crest. He slipped the letter inside the open end of the parcel and Peter tied the knot, patting the bundle with satisfaction.
“Let us hope your kind words will encourage Colman to view the play with some favor,” Peter said jovially to Darnly.
“You are truly kind, sir, to smooth the way for us,” Sophie said to Darnly. She remembered all too well the pile of unsolicited plays forever cluttering the managers’ desk. “Peter and I will need every bit of support to call attention to our fledgling offspring.” She smiled. “Perhaps David Garrick himself will return from abroad soon and find the piece has some promise.”
Peter and Roderick nodded in unison.
“We’ve each done everything we can to promote its success, my dear,” Roderick Darnly assured her. “Shall I ring for the coach so we may dispatch this precious cargo ourselves, posthaste?”
“Hear! Hear!” Peter said, giving Sophie’s hand a happy squeeze.
Within a few minutes the threesome was bumping along Milsom Street in Darnly’s carriage, heading toward the Bear Inn, the point of departure for the
London Fly.
Arriving in Stall Street, they climbed out of their vehicle to ensure that the ruddy-faced coachman stored the manuscript in a trunk under his seat. Just as Darnly was handing the man a generous tip to ensure the play’s safe delivery to Colman at Drury Lane, Sophie glanced across the street and was startled to see Hunter Robertson marching toward them with a news journal rolled under his arm and a scowl on his face.
“And where are
you
going, may I ask?” he demanded heatedly of Sophie, with a glance at the enormous coach that would soon pull away from the inn, heading for the London Road.
“I am not going anywhere,” Sophie replied, surprised and unsettled by his unexpected appearance.
“Excuse me, sir,” Peter interjected coldly, “but you have no cause to accost Miss McGann in such a surly fashion.”
“I have every cause in the world to protect her from gentlemen of your stripe,” Hunter replied as he stared down at Peter with a look of murderous intent.
Peter reacted with shock at his insolence, but, surprisingly, Roderick Darnly intervened with deliberate tact.
“Now, now… let us not be bumptious with each other on such a glorious day,” he said, eyeing Hunter’s superior height and well-developed physique. “Aren’t you Hunter Robertson… that fine performer I’ve seen at the theater here?” Hunter remained silent and bestowed a look of contempt on both men. “I do believe, Peter, that we should allow Mr. Robertson the opportunity to converse with Miss McGann. You must admit we’ve been monopolizing her of late.”
Peter’s mouth fell open in protest, but Darnly took his friend’s arm firmly in his own. Sophie had heard enough about deadly duels fought on the outskirts of Bath to realize that Darnly was anxious to avoid a needless—and possibly dangerous—confrontation between his agitated friend and the hot-tempered actor.
“Do, please, make use of my coach,” Darnly added quickly, indicating the fine equipage that stood nearby. “Why not take the young lady home, and then ask Charles to convey you to wherever is convenient for you, sir? Lindsay-Hoyt and I will enjoy this fine spring day with a walk on the Grand Parade. Please be so kind as to direct my driver to meet us at the bridge in an hour’s time. Good day to you both.”
And before any of them could challenge Darnly’s directives, he had Peter in tow and was headed down the road in the direction of the river Avon.
“Well, at least one of your dandified friends has some sense!” Hunter exclaimed, holding the coach door open and indicating Sophie should step inside.
“Of all the absolute
gall
—” Sophie sputtered, refusing to budge.
“Get in,” Hunter commanded.
“I will not, you overbearing oaf!”
Without replying, Hunter unceremoniously lifted her by the waist, thrust her bodily in the coach, and climbed in behind her, slamming the door. Shouting through the window, he instructed the coachman to drive to North Parade.
“I thought you were boarding the
London Fly,”
Hunter explained in a calmer tone as the coach and horses responded to the driver’s whip. “I was angry and worried and, frankly, dismayed to see you play the harlot with those two rogues.”
“Harlot! Rogues?” Sophie responded furiously. “How
dare
you accuse me thus. What is your proof?”
“Peter Lindsay-Hoyt is no doubt a blackguard with debts from here to the banks of the Thames Square, and Roderick Darnly, I’ve heard rumored, is a mysterious string puller who as far as I can tell hasn’t a decent chap he can call a friend.”
“You’ve been
spying
on me!” Sophie exclaimed.
“Of course I have, you little ninny!”
“And
you’re
the greatest blockhead I ever—”
“So, you claim you were
not
about to leave Bath without saying farewell?” he interrupted.
“Not
today,
I wasn’t!”
“I haven’t seen you these last weeks,” he said, staring at her gravely across the swaying coach.
“No, you haven’t,” Sophie confirmed irritably.
“I brought you flowers for your birthday and received no acknowledgment.”
She stared at him blankly, and then remembered the violets delivered to her door that Peter allowed her to assume he’d sent.
“There was no card, so I could hardly extend my thanks.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Hunter insisted.
“I have,” she agreed, daring to meet his steady gaze.
“Why?”
“I think you know why,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes to her lap.
“I want you to
tell
me,” he demanded.
“God’s wounds, Hunter!” she retorted, looking up at him and feeling her temper rise. “You’ve got Mavis Piggott with child! All three of us know it, and that should be enough answer for you!”
Hunter scowled at her.
“That is the situation she claims is the case,” he said darkly.
“You deny that you were lovers?” Sophie cried, astonished that he would disavow his own offspring.
“No, I do not deny
that,”
he retorted, “but I
do
deny that she is
enceinte
with my child.”
“So… the jade carries another man’s child,” said Sophie in a low, angry tone. “Your masculine pride has been dealt a blow, and thus—in exchange for a few kisses—you think that I should be your willing strumpet whenever you feel randy and Mavis is in another man’s bed! Good God, Hunter, you take me for a fool!”
“Surely I do
not!
That is
not
the bond that exists between us,” he responded, his eyes flashing, “and well you know it!”
Sophie was too shocked by the vehemence in his voice to reply. Instead, she merely stared at him, horrified at what, to her, seemed a callous response to the inevitable outcome of the intimacy Hunter and Mavis had shared these last months. The carriage turned into York Street near Sally Lunn’s. She extended her hand and knocked smartly on the roof overhead to signal to the coachman to halt his vehicle.
“I’ll just get out here,” she mumbled, leaning toward the door.
As her fingers reached for the handle, Hunter grasped them in his own and propelled himself onto the same bench seat where she was perched, poised for a hasty exit. Without warning, he crushed her against his chest and began kissing her hair, her forehead, and finally her lips, as if to tell her something his words were powerless to convey.
“Stop!” Sophie gasped, pushing against his chest. “You can’t blot out all that’s happened like that—”
But that was exactly what he seemed to be attempting to accomplish, obliterating whatever sanity either of them possessed with bruising lips that bespoke some desperate longing.
“Until you came to Bath, I tried to convince myself you were merely a child,” he murmured.
“Well, I’m
not!”
she gasped between kisses. “I’m not some little sister you can pat on the head, or kiss and then ignore.”
“How well I know!” he whispered hoarsely, at last releasing her. “I’ve wanted you since the day I threw those placards into the fire at your father’s shop and bundled you into that wicker trunk to make your escape. I just refused to see it.”
“And now, ’tis too late,” she said dully, smoothing her hair off her forehead and inhaling deeply to gain control of her emotions.
“No!” he replied angrily. “Come home with me. Right now!”
The coach had rolled to a halt in front of Sally Lunn’s and horses and driver waited patiently for the carriage door to open.
“I cannot do that,” she insisted quietly. “And if you refuse to confront the consequences of your liaison with Mavis Piggott, to my way of thinking, you’re the same breed of men you call blackguards.”
And with that, Sophie jumped from the steps to the ground. Her eyes were filled with a sadness beyond tears as she left Hunter sitting alone in Roderick Darnly’s elegant coach.
***
The dancer, Betsy Neep, once recovered from the ague, had drifted off to Bristol with a promise of better parts at the playhouse there. Sophie and Hunter were required to rehearse the musical divertissements to prepare for the theater’s reopening at the end of April. Rehearsals became awkward exercises, with each of them speaking only when absolutely necessary. Once the Orchard Street Theater was back in business, Mavis Piggott’s ill-temper added to the miserable atmosphere around the place.