“But, how are you now so sure the bairn’s not yours?” Sophie said in a low voice.
He flushed with embarrassment.
“Because when last I lay with her in November, her courses came and I had not lain with her since.” He looked away, his thoughts as distant as his gaze across the river Avon. “’Tis of no consequence now… there is to be no bairn.”
“She got rid of it?” Sophie whispered.
“I don’t know exactly what happened, but there is no child,” he said, sounding strangely bereft.
“Then tell me this, Hunter,” Sophie asked tersely. “Why does that fact make you so melancholy, if ’twas not yours?”
Hunter turned to look at her squarely. The strange, haunted expression she’d first seen play across his features when he spoke so long ago of his sister’s death invaded his eyes once again.
“Because ’twas a life and ’tis been snuffed out,” he reflected, “and, as you have so astutely pointed out, it
could
have been my child.”
The pair sat at the river’s edge for several minutes, mesmerized by the water’s relentless flow. Suddenly Hunter broke their silence, leaning toward her, gently tracing the line of her cheekbone with the back of his fingers.
“I canna believe how much I wish to make love to the lass I once took for near a sister,” he said quietly, his former Highland burr creeping back into his speech. At length he stood up, pulling her to her feet by his side. “But I shall not stalk you, Sophie, nor attempt to charm you, nor use those male tricks I know so well,” he said somberly, gazing into her upturned face. “I shall simply wait for you to come to me—if you so desire.”
Sophie could only stare at him wordlessly, a thousand thoughts whirling in her brain. Hunter seized his coat off the ground, dusting the grass from its nap, and offered her his arm. Their backs were warmed by the spring sunshine slanting across the river as they slowly retraced their steps to the Orchard Street Theater.
***
The day of the final performance of the season, the entire company was called for a last rehearsal at ten o’clock in the morning. On her way to the playhouse Sophie paused at King Street to bid adieu to the Sheridans who were off to Edinburgh, where Thomas had secured several leading parts at the Canongate for a week or two.
“After that… I’m not quite sure where we’ll be,” Frances Sheridan admitted wearily, adjusting the cloak of her traveling costume as she waited for the rest of her family to appear outside their lodgings. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Our son, Richard, will be returning to Harrow,” she said, “but our debts are so pressing, Thomas proposes he and I repair to France at summer’s end.”
“Oh, Mrs. Sheridan, I am so sorry,” Sophie commiserated, knowing from her own experience how distressing it was to be counting farthings. “But you’re bound to complete
Journey to Bath
soon. Perhaps Garrick will have returned to Drury Lane by then and your fortunes will deservedly rebound.”
“You are such a dear,” Frances said, gazing at Sophie reflectively. “And I hope your effort at play writing succeeds as well. Remember, Sophie,
no one
sees through your eyes or can write the same play you’re capable of creating.”
Impulsively, Sophie threw her arms around the woman she so admired.
“Thank you,” she whispered, as her breath caught in her throat. “Thank you for all your kindness and confidence in me.”
She bid the Sheridans farewell and dashed through Kingsmead Square, barely arriving at the appointed hour. There was much good-natured grumbling, owing to the early hour, among the remaining crew presenting
The Old Maid.
Fortunately, rehearsing the comedy and the musical interludes revealed the program was in a sufficient state of readiness to put most members of the Orchard Street Theater in a good mood.
“Your thoughts seem on the moon today, Sophie.” Hunter smiled down at her, wiping the perspiration from his face with a cloth hung round his neck. By this time, John Arthur had dismissed the entire company, and the players were milling about. Some drifted out the stage door into Orchard Street. At that very moment, Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt strode through the flies and rushed on stage, excitedly waving a sheet of paper.
“At last!” he exclaimed, breathing hard. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come, Sophie! I must speak with you.”
“What is it?” she demanded, trying not to put too much stock in Peter’s beaming countenance.
“It just arrived in this morning’s post,” he panted. “’Tis from George Colman.
He likes our play!”
“Sink me, you can’t be serious?” Sophie gasped, her eyes glowing. “He really, truly
liked
it?” Peter nodded emphatically. “Give it to me,” she demanded, reaching for the missive. “Let me
read
it!”
“No!” he teased, holding Colman’s letter above her head. “You must come with me, so we can read it together and celebrate our good fortune!”
Sophie turned to look at Hunter, who was staring at her collaborator suspiciously. “’Tis
wonderful
news!” she babbled at him.
“George Colman likes our play!”
“My congratulations,” Hunter replied stiffly.
“Pray, Sophie, you must come with me,” Peter insisted. “We have much to discuss.” And without waiting for her acquiescence, he clasped her hand and headed for the rear stage door.
Peter refused to let Sophie read Colman’s letter until they rendezvoused with Roderick Darnly at a nearby eating house.
“You can see from that first paragraph that he will require some reworking of the earlier scenes,” Peter explained, sipping his second whiskey at the rather early hour of one o’clock in the afternoon. Sophie was holding Colman’s letter in one hand. Peter gave her other hand a soft squeeze. “It shouldn’t take us too long to make those changes, should it?” he inquired eagerly, his cheeks suffused with color from both the spirits and the excitement. Sophie did not reply as she was reading the letter for a second time. “He says he hopes to mount it in the ‘64–’65 season, isn’t that a rip?”
She raised her head to look her coauthor squarely in the eye.
“This letter is addressed to you alone,” she said quietly.
“Does not signify…” he shrugged, sipping his whiskey.
“Nowhere is my name mentioned,” she added in a low voice. “Peter… you
did
submit this work with
both
our names attached to it as authors, did you not?”
Peter looked uncomfortable and glanced over at Darnly.
“I-I thought it more politic to send it with my name as author only—just for the present—as there is so much prejudice against petticoat authors.”
“But I shared in the writing of the piece,” she insisted. She was trying to keep her temper in check. “I copied it at no fee to you, so it could be
read. I
solved the problems of plot! How in conscience could you have submitted this to Drury Lane without mentioning my name?”
“Now, now, Sophie,” Roderick interjected soothingly. “’Twas a small error in judgment on Peter’s part, I agree… but ’tis not irreparable. I doubt that if the play has merit—and Colman apparently believes it has—the manager would have been dissuaded by the sight of a woman as joint author… but Peter wants to give the piece its best chance at acceptance.” He smiled coaxingly at Sophie. “You can’t blame him for
that,
can you?”
“And you’ve heard what a menace that Edward Capell has been,” Peter added, “despising female wits and refusing them licenses for production of their works. I didn’t want to chance it…”
Sophie’s breath was ragged and she knew her face had flushed scarlet. She looked from Peter to Roderick and back to her collaborator again. Everything they said had some truth to it, and yet she knew Peter had deceived her. She swallowed hard and tried to gather her thoughts.
“Well, now that Colman
has
indicated his interest in our work,” she said with measured emphasis, “I wish him to know that I was your coauthor, is that agreed?”
“As soon as he accepts our final version, I promise you, Sophie,” Peter vowed earnestly, “he shall know the names of
both
the brilliant playwrights he has in his employ. In fact, we should repair immediately to London, don’t you think, Darnly?”
Sophie was also anxious to return to the capital. She had not heard recently from Lorna Blount regarding Aunt Harriet, and had nagging worries about the poor woman and about affairs at Ashby’s Books. Hunter, too, should leave for the city before the end of May to confirm his year’s employment and to discover if he was, indeed, to be cast in Mavis’s play at whichever theater was to take it on.
“I shall be departing Bath for London in a day or two and would be most delighted if both of you would keep me company in my coach,” Darnly volunteered.
Sophie thought of Hunter and wondered how soon he had planned to return to the capital. It was probably not sensible to beg a ride for him in Darnly’s coach, recalling the men’s mutual antipathy. She must speak to Hunter first, she decided.
“I thank you for your kind offer of transportation, sir,” Sophie said finally, “and will inform you of my decision on the morrow, after the closing of the playhouse tonight, if that would suit?”
“As you wish,” he replied.
Sophie focused her attention on her writing partner.
“So we are agreed we will return to London forthwith to complete the work Colman has suggested,” she said in a businesslike manner, “and that we will inform the manager that Sir Peter and I
both
assume credit or blame for
The Footmen’s Conspiracy?”
Sophie gazed expectantly at her writing partner, who was toying with his empty whiskey glass. After a long pause, he shrugged, a gesture Sophie took to be agreement with her plan. Formality seemed to be replacing their previous camaraderie, which was just as well, she thought ruefully. She stood up to depart.
“May I direct my coachman now to convey you to your lodgings?” Roderick offered.
Sophie regarded both men for a moment and then shook her head. By the timepiece on the wall behind their table, it was just after two o’clock. Hunter would most likely be resting at his flat prior to leaving to prepare for the season’s final performance.
“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “’Tis a lovely day… near summerlike, I’d say. I shall walk.”
***
Sophie paused in front of the entrance to Number 6 Pierpont Place, her hand resting on the door’s heavy brass knocker. Now that she was standing in front of Hunter’s lodgings, she hesitated to announce her presence. At length, she rapped twice, feeling suddenly foolish and shy. After a lengthy interval, the door opened only a crack.
“Sophie?” Hunter said, a look of surprise playing across his features. He was coatless and standing in his stocking feet.
“Aye,” she answered uncertainly. “If you’re resting, we can speak later…”
“No… no…” he said swiftly, flinging open his door. “Come in, ’twas just I was having a wee sleep when I heard your knock… I’m a bit fuzzy headed, ’tis all.”
“So am I,” Sophie replied wryly, following him into his chambers. “I’m very confused about a number of things.”
He gave her a quizzical look and bid her select one of the two chairs that sat facing the cold hearth.
“Well, then, do sit down,” he urged. “May I offer some spirits? I have brandy, I think…” he added, striding toward the armoire standing on the opposite side of the room. He retrieved the bottle and set it and two glasses on the small table in front of them. “So, Sophie,” he said, focusing his attention on the brandy he was pouring, “shall we toast our final performance together at the theater this evening?”
“’Tis finished tonight, isn’t it?” she assented softly. “Back in London, I’ll simply be ‘Sophie McGann, playbill seller.’ I don’t think my performing compares to dancers such as my friend Lorna Blount.”
“Let us not forget you are now a dramatist,” he reminded her quietly, sipping his brandy. “Did Colman’s letter confirm your hopes?”
“He very much liked the play—with a few reservations and suggestions for changes in the early acts,” she parried, too embarrassed to reveal the controversy about her status as Peter’s partner. Hunter was staring contemplatively into his glass and Sophie leaned across the table to force him to heed her next words.
“Hunter…” she said earnestly, “you don’t seem truly pleased about my play—”
“It pleases me not at all that you are in partnership with that fop,” he interrupted testily.
Sophie found herself repressing a smile. She reached for his free hand, allowing her fingers to brush his lightly.
“’Tis a
business
association, Hunter… I promise you.”
He raised his eyes from his brandy glass and searched her face for a long moment. She stared back steadily and felt a familiar current of emotion surge between them.