“What?”
“He explained that no woman in England has ever successfully petitioned the House of Lords for a divorce. However, it seems that thirty-three men—commoners and peers alike—have severed themselves legally from their wives.”
“But, if
they
obtained relief from adulterous wives, why not wives from adulterous husbands?” he wondered.
“The worthy Mr. Beezle explained that even if a husband commits adultery, beats his wife, or squanders her dowry, it can only mean she hasn’t been a good enough companion to the man! He may be a rake, a gambler, a philanderer—even give his wife the
clap!
But English law says the husband is the victim!”
“But what about Scotland?” Hunter asked. “’Tis a different legal system, you know. Courts there have granted wives divorces in extreme situations.… I’m sure of it! One could say that a man posing as a baronet had committed fraud, if nothing else.”
“You seem to have forgotten how you managed my escape from Edinburgh just a cat’s whisker before the constable would have arrested me,” she reminded him glumly. “I doubt I could obtain much justice in Scottish courts.”
Hunter reluctantly nodded his agreement. The two of them exchanged somber glances.
“My life’s a terrible coil, Hunter,” she stated finally. “I must sort it out before I can do much of anything… write, live with someone—”
“Or love?” he asked, gazing at her steadily.
Sophie felt a sharp intake of breath. How did he read her thoughts so exactly she wondered? She smiled sadly.
“Or love,” she echoed.
Hunter stood up wearily.
“You
will
permit an old friend to visit from time to time, won’t you?” he asked, bending over the trunk to peer down again at Danielle. He brushed the back of one of his fingers lightly against the baby’s cheek. It was a gesture of such gentleness that Sophie thought her heart wouldn’t stand it.
She nodded to avoid having to speak past the lump that had risen in her throat. Danielle could have been
their
child, she thought sorrowfully. If only she had not fled from Bath to London to collaborate with Peter.
Her eyes drifted involuntarily to the table where she did her writing. Her quill pen rested jauntily in its stand, awaiting the time when she would sit down to work on a new idea for a play that had come to her as she lay in bed recovering from her ordeal. She needed to write as much as she needed to breathe. Could Hunter ever really understand that? Could he understand how her love for him and her love for her work often pulled her in opposite directions? And then there was Danielle. How in the world could she manage it all, she wondered, as Hunter rose to his full height and prepared to depart.
“When you’ve worked out this puzzle… I’ll be waiting,” he said quietly and leaned down to kiss her lightly on her forehead. Then, he strode out of the room.
Twenty-One
Good day, m’lady,” said Mr. Collins, addressing Sophie from his perch at the entrance to Drury Lane. The look on his face bespoke his surprise at seeing her only ten days after childbirth.
Sophie offered a hurried greeting to the stage doorkeeper as she moved silently toward the wings to watch the final rehearsal for
Double Devils
unobserved. Despite her determination to see how well the actors recited the speeches she had labored over with such intensity, Sophie worried that Lorna would find minding both the book shop and the infant Danielle too much for one person to handle.
She heaved a sigh and tried to concentrate on the actors’ characterizations, the flesh-and-blood creations that had sprung from her imagination. Mavis Piggott, playing the hapless fiancée engaged to one of the rakish twins, was sobbing into a series of handkerchiefs provided her by Kitty Clive, her match-making mother.
Garrick had taken for himself the role of one of the twins and West Digges, dressed in matching wig, makeup, and costume, played the other. Even the supporting players seemed to know their lines, and Sophie’s spirits rose at the prospect of a delighted audience at the opening performance the following evening.
“Excuse me, sir!” Collins’s voice cut through the dialogue being exchanged on stage. “You cannot go in there!”
Sophie shrank back into the shadows at the sight of her husband, Peter, weaving his way past the stage doorkeeper and into the first set of wings.
“Ah… Garrick, my good man… so sorry to disturb you,” Peter said, the familiar slurring of his words indicating he had been on one of his now-frequent binges.
The action on stage had halted midsentence, and the cast turned their attention to David Garrick, whose policy on interruptions during rehearsals was inviolate.
“We are at work, sir,” Garrick said frostily. “I’ll thank you to remove yourself to my office. Collins!” he commanded. “Show Sir Peter the way.”
“This can’t wait, I’m afraid.” Peter grinned inanely, leaning against a painted column that was part of the garden terrace set. At that point, the piece of scenery gave way beneath his weight. He stumbled forward and was only saved from falling on his face when West Digges swiftly grabbed his arm to steady him. “I lost a bit of blunt at White’s last night, don’t y’know,” he said conspiratorially to his rescuer, “…thought I’d collect my author’s fees in advance from the Great Garrick, here.” He peered unsteadily in the direction of the actor-manager. “Great God, Garrick!” he announced loudly, executing an exaggerated bow, “can you spare me a few quid?”
There was a collective gasp of horror from the assembly, and Sophie suddenly wished she could disappear through one of the trap doors carved in the Drury Lane stage. Garrick’s stentorian answer rang to the rafters.
“Sir! Kindly hold your tongue until this rehearsal is concluded!”
“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” declared Roderick Darnly, materializing suddenly from the Greenroom opposite Sophie’s vantage point.
“Ah… Darnly… my old friend… the Patron,” Peter said mockingly, turning to his former companion. “Pulled a few wires, did you, to get that peevish censor to approve this magnificent work of art… for which I’d like to be recompensed…
now!”
“Come, Peter,” Darnly said firmly, taking the inebriated man by the arm. “Let me help you, old chap.”
“You helped, all right,” he growled. “You helped my wife desert me, that infernal bitch! The polecat didn’t wish to share credit for this piece when she knows I wrote all the good speeches m’self!” Sophie could hear an undercurrent of reaction to this blatant falsehood ripple through the players lounging on stage. “The wretched vixen!” Peter added spitefully. “Don’t even know if her babe is
mine!
Could it be
yours,
old chap?” he asked drunkenly.
Sophie felt her pulse begin to pound and her cheeks turn red with anger and humiliation.
“Come, Peter,” Darnly repeated as he half-led, half-dragged Sophie’s husband toward the stage door. “Collins!” he barked. “Take his other arm!”
The entire cast watched in stunned silence as Peter was hustled off stage.
“Take my advice,” the unwelcome visitor said loudly over his shoulder, “and never marry a female wit. God’s wounds, they destroy a man! Only thing to do now is divorce the slut. Takes an act of Parliament, but you’ll testify in my behalf, won’t you, Roddy old man?” he inquired as his knees suddenly buckled. “Where are you taking me?” he appealed to his escorts. “The Bedford?… or the good ol’ Blue Periwig? Must warn the chaps about jades like my lady wife…”
Sophie shrank deeper into the shadows, mortified that anyone should know she had witnessed this appalling display.
Garrick scowled at the retreating backs of the three men exiting the theater and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen! I would advise you to disregard the reckless statements of a man besotted with drink. Let us continue, please. Mrs. Piggott? Mrs. Clive? We will commence with your entrance.”
***
There wasn’t a spare seat in Drury Lane the night
Double Devils
was presented on stage for the first time. Elizabeth Griffith’s
The Double Mistake
was also making its debut at Covent Garden that January night, and the London theatergoing crowd was abuzz that Drury Lane had thrown down the proverbial gauntlet to its nearby competitor. This, coupled with Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt’s public declaration that he intended to drag his collaborator through the mud in a threatened Parliamentary divorce trial had been excellent for ticket sales.
“It appears the scandal of our warring playwright-spouses has been a boon for business,” Mavis Piggott pronounced loudly as the cast gathered backstage for the start of the performance. “I hope their strategy of airing their private quarrels so publicly succeeds beyond first night.”
“If you think I’d wish this tittle-tattle on myself, Mavis, you’ve quite gone ’round the twist!” Sophie snapped.
Kitty Clive listened from nearby.
“My, my, Mavis… pull in your claws, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Just try to do your very best with this choice part Sophie’s written. Take it from an older woman. Your days playing young misses are sadly numbered!”
As the first act curtain parted, the two actresses were all smiles, conversing with the identically dressed Garrick and Digges. Kitty was promptly rewarded with a burst of laughter from the audience as soon as she leaned toward her “daughter” and said as an aside, “What matter which man strikes your fancy, m’dear? If we can catch one of ’em, we’ll
both
be the richer for it!”
By the middle of February, Garrick summoned Sophie to his upstairs chambers at Drury Lane and handed her half the proceeds from the Third, Sixth, and Ninth Author’s Night Benefits.
“Your husband threatened legal action when I paid him his share only,” Garrick sighed, counting out Sophie’s fees, “but I think ’tis only bluster. All in all, I’d call
Double Devils
a resounding success,” the manager smiled encouragingly. “Did you see the excellent notice in the Sir
James’s Chronicle
this week?”
“Giving all the credit to Peter,” Sophie replied morosely. “Thank you,” she added, tucking away the money.
“Is that why you appear so glum, my dear?” Garrick asked with a look of concern.
“Peter’s creditors have taken to hounding
me
now,” Sophie replied. “His threat to petition Parliament for a divorce may also just be bluster, but I have no idea, really. Meanwhile, he’s suggested his creditors attach my earnings, which they have a clear and legal right to do.”
“The blackguard!” Garrick muttered, shaking his head.
“In spite of the scandal, I rather wish he
would
divorce me,” Sophie acknowledged grimly. “My only hope to keep us out of Newgate is to continue writing. ’Tis challenging indeed to craft a comedy under such circumstances.”
“One of these days you’ll reap your due, dear,” he assured her. “How’s
The Bogus Baronet
progressing?”
Sophie shook her head and laughed.
“Quite nicely, despite what I just said. Fortunately, ’tis a plot that almost writes itself!”
***
Ice and sleet howled outside Ashby’s Books for several days following Sophie’s interview with Garrick, and virtually no customers came to call. Sophie had made a daybed for little Danielle in one of the roomy bottom drawers in her desk at the shop. She was able to keep an eye on her sleeping baby while she worked on the new play, luxuriating in the peace and quiet of her surroundings.
“Morning,” Mary Ann mumbled, arriving at the shop with a blast of cold air after her night’s labors at the Blue Periwig. Within minutes the exhausted prostitute had mounted the stairs to the second-floor living quarters and crawled into the bed Sophie had vacated less than an hour earlier.
Overhead Sophie heard the sound of Lorna methodically pulling the lever on the printing press. Thanks to their mutual efforts, Sophie and Lorna had managed to stay solvent since the baby was born, though just barely. Nevertheless, to Sophie ’twas a far more pleasant existence than the life she’d shared with Peter Lindsay.
Danielle stirred in her makeshift crib. Puckering her tiny features, the infant began to cry. Swiftly, Sophie lifted her daughter from the bedding, uncovered her breast, which was hard and full of milk, and allowed the baby to find its source of greatest contentment.
Suddenly another gust of frigid air swirled into the book shop, scattering the pages of
The Bogus Baronet.
She looked up in annoyance and then stared, openmouthed, at the two figures standing in the doorway.
“Bozzy!”
she exclaimed, jumping up from her chair with the baby still nursing in her arms. “Oh, Hunter, you’ve brought Bozzy to my door, just as you did in Edinburgh!”
James Boswell, round and pink and hearty as ever, strode into the book shop after an absence of nearly two and a half years abroad.