“Colman had his fill of that Piggott woman… he banished her and her play clear out of London! Regardless of the merit of our comedy,” he continued persuasively, “Colman or Capell could damn our first effort out of hand, and then
neither
of us would profit. Let us establish ourselves before the public. We’ll win their approbation, and
then
surprise the powers that be with the truth about your contribution to this effort.”
Sophie had reluctantly agreed because of her fierce desire to see their play mounted professionally. However, the secrecy was far from pleasant.
“When the time is right, all shall be revealed,” Peter assured her. “Trust me, Sophie. I know whereof I speak.”
With a sigh, she forced her thoughts back to the task at hand and followed Lorna quietly up the stairs that led to the stage doorkeeper’s box. She slipped past without Mr. Collins even looking up from his news journal and headed toward Moorgate on an unseasonably chilly afternoon.
A half hour later, her heart quickened when she caught sight of the statues of Madness and Melancholy flanking the entrance to Bedlam. No sooner had she passed through the familiar portals of the asylum when, to her dismay, she spied Dr. Monro greeting dignitaries who were indulging in an afternoon’s amusement by observing the antics of the inmates. Fortunately, he failed to give Sophie, in her male attire, a second glance. Within minutes, she had conveyed a basket of food to her aunt by pressing two hard-earned shillings into the palm of the guard, Jackson, who would ensure its safe delivery after convincing him she was Harriet Ashby’s nephew, lately returned from India.
To remain inconspicuous, Sophie joined the Sunday visitors who stared from their assigned vantage points at the cackling, moaning, chattering patients milling about a large room with high windows and virtually no furniture. Aunt Harriet was, indeed, among those herded into the chamber by the orderlies. The old woman had grown more wraithlike and haggard and appeared bewildered by the bustle and noise surrounding her. Soon, she retreated to a corner and curled up on the floor in her customary fetal position. Tears filled Sophie’s eyes as she quickly exited the hospital and walked the long road back to Half Moon Passage in a light rain. As she trudged up the gloomy staircase to her lodgings above Ashby’s Books, she wondered, suddenly, if writing plays for a fickle public and hostile authorities was worth the misery and isolation apparently required to accomplish such a feat.
“You’re back!” Lorna exclaimed as Sophie lifted the latch to her chambers. “I decided to wait. Come… I’ve started a nice fire in the hearth… and here’s a cup of tea to warm you. You had no trouble with that wretched Monro?”
“No,” Sophie said wearily, hanging her cloak on a peg near the door. “The good doctor never even noticed me.” She took the cup of tea Lorna proffered her and sank into a chair near the fire.
“Your aunt’s worse?” Lorna asked, observing her friend’s gloomy countenance.
“A bit thinner… but the same, really.”
“Then, why so melancholy?”Lorna asked kindly, drawing up another chair as she balanced her teacup on her knee.
Sophie gazed into the fire and shook her head morosely.
“As I was walking home I was struck by the notion that most women bind themselves to a man to have a center for their lives. Aunt Harriet certainly did that when she married Uncle John. She left an entire life in Edinburgh and followed her husband to London to work in an establishment that ultimately turned out to specialize in bawdry, which I am certain my aunt abhorred.”
“Perhaps she loved her husband?”Lorna ventured.
“Perhaps she had no idea what she was bargaining for,” Sophie replied, taking another sip of her tea. “And then there’s David Garrick’s wife…”
“Eva-Maria? She was a supremely talented dancer, I’m told.”
“And she hasn’t danced a step in years,” Sophie said with a sigh.
“Well, I suppose her life is awfully pleasant,” Lorna considered, “a celebrated husband… ample income… travel… two lovely abodes—”
Sophie set her tea cup down on the floor with a clatter.
“But don’t you wonder if there are days when Eva-Maria Veigel, the former toast of Vienna, doesn’t long to
dance
? To fly across the stage? To hear the applause… to use that God-given talent?” Sophie demanded. “To live
her
life, not David Garrick’s?”
“Perhaps on days when Garrick himself is in a foul temper, yes,” Lorna jested.
“No… truly?” Sophie protested. “Why must Mrs. Garrick be the one to give all that up?”
“Perhaps she wanted to,” Lorna said gently. “There are nights my feet ache so much, I would love to have a husband who’d entreat me to remain in my country house and dance
him
attendance.”
“Well, of course,” Sophie agreed reluctantly. “I’ve had days lately when I’m tired and discouraged, but why must a woman
always
put a man’s wishes and desires
first?
Why must she invariably honor his dreams and ambitions above all else? Do you really think that’s the only path to happiness for men and women?”
“Certainly it is for the
men!”
Lorna laughed, and then grew somber at the look of utter dejection that had come over her friend.
Sophie sighed a second time and rose to stir the coals with the fire poker.
“But consider Thomas and Frances Sheridan. They appear to honor each other’s abilities in a respectful manner.”
“Aye…” Lorna replied, contemplating Sophie’s words. “But they’re often separated by their professional pursuits, and their children are sent away to school or left in Ireland with relatives for years at a time.”
“But they seem
devoted
to one another,” Sophie noted wistfully.
“That’s true, they do,” Lorna agreed. She stared at her friend closely. “Are we actually discussing the Sheridans, or is it you and Hunter… and the fact that you left him to write your play?”
Sophie nodded despondently.
“I refused to go to Ireland with Hunter because I wanted to see to our play at Drury Lane,” she mused. “My best opportunity to accomplish that was in London with Peter.” She cast Lorna a plaintive look. “I wish Hunter to succeed with his dream… why can’t he wish the same for
me?”
“Because I doubt he’s considered that your dream is as important as his,” Lorna said matter-of-factly.
“That’s what I said to him!” Sophie retorted, and then shrugged sadly. “Yet I feel so wretched without him.”
“It must be true love then,” Lorna said with a smile.
“But I know that I would be equally miserable if I were in Dublin right now, selling programs in the lobby and never lifting a quill!”
“’Tis certainly a coil,” Lorna agreed with a nod.
“If I persist in wrestling with this subject overmuch,” Sophie laughed ruefully, “I’ll end up back in Bedlam!”
***
“You may wait in here, mum,” Sir Peter’s housekeeper announced with undisguised ill-humor as she showed Sophie into the front sitting room of the baronet’s flat on Cleveland Row. As she entered Peter’s chambers, Sophie found herself pondering the irony that both his abode and that of his friend, Darnly—a magnificent establishment around the corner at Number 10 St. James Street—were within sight of the entrance to the Lord Chamberlain’s office housed in St. James’s Palace. Through Peter’s front window she could see the black enamel door behind which the scaly faced Edward Capell controlled the fate of would-be playwrights.
Mrs. Hood crossed the carpet in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the chamber.
“The baronet returned from Wiltshire only yesterday, mum, and was out quite late last night, I understand,” the housekeeper announced reproachfully over her shoulder as she pulled open the drapes, allowing hot August sunshine to stream into the room. “I doubt he will rise before two.”
“I made today’s appointment with Sir Peter before his departure,” Sophie replied tartly, unpacking the manuscript she had toiled over during the fortnight Peter had decamped for the country estate of one of his aristocratic friends. Placing
The Footmen’s Conspiracy
on a nearby desk, she added sharply, “Please inform the baronet when you wake him that in one hour’s time I will proceed to Drury Lane to submit our work to George Colman. That should encourage his
levée.”
“Yes mum,” the housekeeper replied resignedly.
As Mrs. Hood departed to convey the message, Sophie took a seat at Peter’s desk, withdrawing a long, white quill from its inkstand. She snapped the feathers smartly against her palm as she scanned the final scene of the play with an acutely critical eye. Suddenly, she dipped the pen into the inkwell and began scribbling furiously. More than thirty minutes elapsed before she heard the poshly accented voice of Roderick Darnly in the foyer outside the sitting room.
“Why Sophie, what a pleasant surprise,” Roderick declared as he strode into the room. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, which registered ten minutes past eleven. “No Peter yet? What a slugabed! I was up by nine this morning, in spite of our evening’s festivities.”
“Good morning, sir,” Sophie said politely.
Darnly was handsomely turned out in a cream-colored silk moiré suit and white silk stockings. His hand, with its gold-crested signet ring, rested on her desk as the young nobleman leaned over her shoulder and peered at the sheaf of manuscript pages.
“Finis!
it says. Well, well, you two
have
made progress. Congratulations!”
“’Tis I who’ve made the progress,” Sophie replied with asperity. “As you must know, your friend has been away from London. Needless to say, this can make collaboration difficult.”
“But Sophie!” a voice said teasingly from the doorway, “while I was in the country, I always knew our play was in capable hands. Lovely to see you, my dear,” Peter greeted her warmly. “Morning, Darnly. Has Mrs. Hood brought the coffee?”
“Here you are, sir,” the housekeeper announced, bustling through the door and depositing a tray on a table standing near a sofa brocaded in mustard silk.
Peter was wearing his dressing gown over his breeches and his shirt was open at the neck, revealing a mat of jet-black hair. He eagerly grabbed the cup extended to him by Mrs. Hood and saw to it that his guests were served coffee as well. As Sophie sipped the chicory brew, Peter perused the pages she had just completed. He actually laughed aloud at some of the passages.
He smiled expansively. “Really, Sophie, these last bits you’ve conjured up are capital fun.”
She found herself smiling with pleasure at his praise.
“I myself think they’re quite good,” she agreed, eschewing any false modesty. “If you have some fresh paper, I can copy over the new material and we can submit it all to Colman—
at last!”
“Absolutely!” Peter enthused. “Mrs. Hood, find Miss McGann some fresh sheets. Darnly, old boy,” he added, “what say you we clear out of here for a bit… let Sophie get on with her work undisturbed. Shall we look in at White’s… have a brief repast… something of that nature?”
“If Sophie is amenable,” Roderick said, casting her an inquiring look.
Sophie was tempted to demand that Peter remain, if only so she would feel less like a common clerk. However, she knew she would make much faster progress if she had total peace and quiet.
“’Tis perfectly agreeable to me—as long as you promise to return in two hours’ time,” she replied. “I want this to be in George Colman’s hands
today,
Peter. He may already have assumed at this late date that the authors of
The Footmen Conspiracy
have abandoned their effort.”
“Not to worry,” Peter assured her cheerfully. “I dispatched a note from the country saying I expected to be able to submit the revised manuscript before the month was out.”
“And how were you so sure—out there in Wiltshire—that we’d be prepared to give him the finished version?” she demanded.
“Because I placed my complete faith in your brilliance, my dear.” Peter smiled mischievously. He turned to his companion. “Shall we cease distracting the poor girl?”
And before Sophie had dipped her quill into her host’s crystal ink pot, she heard Peter and Roderick pass through the front door.
***
Sophie spent the rest of the week in an agony of apprehension. What would Colman think of the revisions of their play? Did she actually dare reveal her joint authorship at this juncture?
In the first week of September, she had an excuse to call at Drury Lane to secure a cast list for the perennial season opener,
The Beggar’
s
Opera,
scheduled for the middle of the month.
She smiled a greeting at Mr. Collins, the doorkeeper, and quietly made her way up the stairs in the direction of Garrick’s office. The familiar refrain of MacHeath’s song drifted up the stairwell from the rehearsal taking place on stage. As she passed near the Treasure Room where the nightly receipts were kept, a deep-throated laugh wafted out from the manager’s chambers. Peering through the door standing ajar, Sophie was astounded at the sight of George Colman sitting at David Garrick’s large mahogany desk holding a copy of
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.
Another burst of merriment erupted and he slapped his thigh with amusement. He only looked up when he sensed Sophie was standing in the doorway.