Sophie broke into a broad smile, and felt almost like hugging herself with pleasure. Then her face fell.
“You’ve not told anyone I’m writing anonymously, have you?”
“I took my dear wife into my confidence, as I always do, but not a word to any others,” he replied with a look of sympathy.
“Not even Mr. Lacy?”
“Eventually, I may have to inform him. We’re partners. But I thought to wait until I know when we’ll present the play. Most likely ’twill be after the Christmas pantomime.”
“And Lacy’s… friend—Roderick Darnly? You haven’t told him either?”
Garrick frowned and shook his head.
“I will confess, Sophie my dear, I am not happy that James Lacy has diluted his half of the holdings in Drury Lane by mortgaging even a few shares to that man. I fear the Earl of Llewelyn’s son has ambitions beyond those he’s willing to disclose.”
“Ambitions?” Sophie asked, alarmed.
“As a holder of the King’s Patent, Lacy must
sell
his shares outright—and I must approve the buyer,” Garrick confided. “He ought not obtain loans using Drury shares as collateral, but I fear that’s precisely what he has done. My partner could find his shares wrested away from him by his supposed benefactor.” The manager shook his head. “Ever since I returned from abroad, I find myself confronted by this noble interloper who fancies himself an arbiter of theatrical taste. The Honorable Roderick Darnly thinks that by right of his investment, he holds some power here. I’ve seen his type before,” he added somberly.
“But Mr. Darnly seems to have a genuine interest in the drama,” Sophie ventured, disturbed that Garrick, whom she so admired, should speak so harshly of a man who had been nothing but kind to her of late.
“These dilettantes aspire to live the lives of artists, but haven’t the innate talent or discipline for it,” Garrick averred. “Just between us, Lacy’s given me his word he’ll not mortgage anything further to underwrite his search for coal on his country estate.”
“I should not trust the word of men who are short of funds, sir,” Sophie observed, thinking of Peter’s penchant for breaking promises to himself—and others.
“Nor I,” Garrick was quick to agree. “That is why I shall remain mum about the origins of
The Parsimonious Parson.
Once we secure the censor’s approval and begin rehearsals, we shall discuss whether you wish to make your authorship known.”
***
In early December, Garrick announced to Sophie he had scheduled her comedy to begin rehearsal the week following Christmas. Less than an hour later, Sophie burst through the front door of Ashby’s Books just as Lorna was closing shop.
“Come with me,” Sophie said gaily, “I’m treating you to the finest chop London has to offer. We’re celebrating!”
“Celebrating what?” Lorna laughed, putting down her feather duster.
“I can’t even tell
you,”
Sophie replied mysteriously. “Not for a while, anyway…” She retrieved several shillings from the cash box inside the desk drawer. “Come. Let’s go to Half Moon Tavern next door and have a fine supper before I return to Cleveland Row.”
“What of Sir Peter?”Lorna asked.
“He’s rarely home to sup these days,” Sophie said shortly, “so why should I be?”
It was only three o’clock, but the tavern was full of theater people eating their principal meal of the day. Few respectable women would be seen in a public eating house like the Half Moon, but this was Covent Garden, where actresses and whores (and some who plied
both
trades) had no such qualms.
Sophie and Lorna threaded their way through the crowded chamber toward an empty table protected by high wooden partitions. In one booth sat Mavis Piggott, Kitty Clive, and a gloomy-looking Elizabeth Griffith. The three women, who had all enjoyed the success of having plays produced professionally in London, appeared deep in conversation. Mavis looked up at the precise moment Sophie passed their table and curled her sensuous lips into a malevolent smile.
“Well… if it isn’t
Lady
Lindsay-Hoyt,” Mavis said mockingly.
“Why, Sophie, dear, how are you?” Kitty Clive chimed in with genuine warmth. “Growing ever larger, I see. Hello, Lorna,” she added, “having a nice meal tonight, are you? Avoid the parsnip stew at all costs,” she warned, rising to make her departure.
“Sophie can’t be as interested in tonight’s menu, Kitty,” Mavis said slyly, “as in news that a certain gentleman we both know
intimately
has just arrived from Dublin.”
Sophie felt her heart pound so fiercely she was certain the others could hear it. Kitty’s inquisitive gaze shifted from Mavis to Sophie, but Elizabeth Griffith spoke first.
“I was just telling Mavis and Kitty, here… ’twas that handsome new assistant manager at Covent Garden—Mr. Robertson—who informed me just now that John Beard preferred some bit of nonsense about a parson to
my
play,” Mrs. Griffith complained, referring to the current manager at Covent Garden. “’Tis to be presented before Christmas instead of my
Double Mistake!”
Hunter was
here
? In
London?
He had obviously made no attempt to find her, Sophie thought morosely. She glanced down at her swelling waistline and then gazed distractedly at Mavis. Had the jade seen
him yet? Had she told him Sophie was married—and carrying Peter’s child?
Among the confused thoughts swirling in her brain, Elizabeth’s complaint regarding the play that had been substituted at Covent Garden finally penetrated her consciousness.
A farce about a parson,
Mrs. Griffith had said.
“A play about a…
clergyman…
is forcing cancellation of your work, Mrs. Griffith?” Sophie asked haltingly.
“Not canceled,” Elizabeth pouted. “But my piece has been postponed till January, and one wonders if that Robertson fellow was sincere about the new date. Do you think he’d be truthful, Mavis?” she said anxiously.
But Mavis was looking at Sophie triumphantly.
“You didn’t know our old friend had returned to London either, did you?” she said with a smug smile.
“No… why should I be privy to events at Covent Garden?” retorted Sophie. “As you well know, Mavis, my loyalty’s to Drury Lane.”
Kitty Clive nodded in agreement.
“Elizabeth’s just been telling us how the new lad—this Hunter Robertson—is creating dances for a musical confection that Covent Garden is throwing hastily on stage,” Kitty prattled, “…
The Parsimonious Parson,
was it, Beth?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth Griffith sniffed. “According to Robertson, ’tis a thin tale that aims to spoof the doleful Scottish clergy.”
Sophie stared dumbfounded at Lorna and the other three women. Everyone in the London theater world knew that the pilfering of plots—as well as out-and-out thievery—between competing dramatists was a common enough occurrence, but this was too much! Kitty Clive reached for her cloak, heedless of the tension whirling around her.
“Well, ladies, I must be off,” Kitty sighed. “Mavis, are you coming?”
“No… I’ve nothing till the second act—”
But before anyone else said a word, Sophie whirled on her heel and bolted out the tavern door with Lorna Blount following her, wearing a look of bewilderment.
“A pox on ’em!” Sophie cursed, pointing a shaking finger at a playbill announcing a coming attraction that was posted on the front of Covent Garden Theater. “’Tis actually set to
music!”
“What is?” panted Lorna, having finally caught up with her friend.
“The Parsimonious Parson,
that’s what!” Sophie exploded. “That’s what we were going to celebrate, you and I! Garrick had just scheduled a play I wrote anonymously for Drury Lane. Someone—and I’ll wager a hundred pounds ’twas Mavis Piggott—has pilfered my manuscript from his office and given it to that bastard! Look!” she said, jabbing her forefinger at Hunter’s name printed on the playbill announcing his authorship of the piece scheduled for Covent Garden in three days’ time. “He’s even taken
credit
for writing the play and then had the cheek to set it to
music
—may his bones be damned!”
“But how could Mavis or anyone else steal it from Drury Lane without Garrick knowing of the piracy?”
“Someone with access to the manager’s chambers could have copied it at night,” Sophie replied grimly.
Lorna leaned forward in the gathering gloom to read the print at the bottom of the playbill. “‘Hunter Robertson,’” she read aloud. She stared at Sophie, dismayed. “You’re saying that
you
wrote this and Hunter is falsely claiming to be its author?” Sophie nodded grimly. “Sink me, but this is dreadful!”
“’Tis more than
that!”
Sophie retorted, seething. “’Tis
thievery
! And if he and Mavis think I’m going to sit still for this…”
Lorna watched, openmouthed, as Sophie stalked down an alleyway toward Covent Garden’s stage door and disappeared inside.
“Mr. Beard is not available, Lady Lindsay-Hoyt,” announced Mr. Besford. The stage doorkeeper cast a skeptical glance at his visitor’s rounded girth. “I’m afraid the manager simply cannot see you now. Performances begin in two hours’ time.” Privately, the servant was shocked to see a woman, let alone an aristocrat, appear in public in such an advanced stage of pregnancy. Certainly not one with fire in her eye, rudely demanding to see his employer. “I will find the assistant manager for you, if you’ll just wait here.”
Sophie paced restlessly just inside the entrance until a tall, familiar figure suddenly materialized out of the gloom.
“Sophie?” Hunter said, a look of astonishment flooding the handsome features she remembered so well. “Besford said it was a Lady Lindsay-Hoyt and—” He paused, midsentence, the impact of the words he’d just uttered apparently dawning on him. “You mean to say you
married
that sod!” he exclaimed in a horrified voice. “Oh
God,
Sophie… you
didn’t!”
“Don’t you
dare
pretend my marriage
is
news to you or that you aren’t aware that I am the author of
The Parsimonious Parson,
you lying villain!” she shouted.
“For God’s sake, Sophie, what are you talking about?” Hunter demanded, his eyes reflecting his shock as he stared at her bulging abdomen. Besford gazed from one to the other in amazement. Hunter hastily grabbed Sophie’s arm and hauled her fifty paces into a deserted scene-painting room that smelled pungently of turpentine and oils. Once inside, he let go of her arm but cupped his large hand fleetingly on the side of her hard belly.
“When is the bairn due?” he asked, his features expressionless.
Sophie poked a finger roughly into his chest.
“My babe’s due in January, if ’tis any of your business, which it certainly is not!” she stormed. “But I am here to discuss my
play,
you swine!
The Parsimonious Parson!
A ‘Musical Afterpiece by Hunter Robertson’ that I just saw trumpeted on that placard outside!”
“You are saying that
you
wrote that play?” Hunter asked with an astonished look.
“Of course I’m saying I wrote it!” she screeched. “By God, you certainly know that
you
didn’t write it!”
“Of course I didn’t write it!” snapped Hunter. Now it was Sophie’s turn to look confounded. “It was already in rehearsal when I arrived from Dublin,” explained Hunter. “Just give me one reason why I should believe
you
wrote it?”
In sheer frustration, Sophie began to pound on his broad chest with her fists.
“Because the manuscript titled
The Parsimonious Parson
—penned in
my
hand—is sitting in David Garrick’s office at this very second,
that’s
why!” she shouted. “Someone made a copy from
that
copy, and I would bet my life ’tis your former paramour, Mavis Piggott. Or have you two reunited?” she added with withering sarcasm.
“I haven’t laid eyes
on Mavis Piggott,” he retorted. “I haven’t had a minute to myself since I was summoned back to London by post and this
Parson
claptrap was thrown in my lap three days ago. I’m expected to invent dances out of thin air!”
“Claptrap!
Why you—” Sophie retorted, flailing her fists against his chest with renewed fury.
Hunter caught her by the wrists and glared down at her.