“If you make it early,” Lorna answered eagerly. “I’m dancing in the afterpiece following
School for Rakes.
”
“Ah, so Mrs. Griffith still earns her keep by her pen,” Sophie noted, encouraged by such news.
“Not without great assistance from Mr. G.,” Lorna replied in a low voice. “When
Rakes
was in rehearsal, Garrick nearly went mad with her moaning at every juncture.” The dancer cocked an ear toward the stage. “I must go back, but shall we say six tonight? I’m due at Drury by eight or so.”
“Half Moon Passage at six, and we shall make our plans from there,” Sophie agreed happily. Impulsively, she gave her friend another hug. “You are a prize, Lorna Blount! And I a—”
“A dear friend as well,” Lorna interrupted. “At six, then,” she called over her shoulder and disappeared backstage.
At around the appointed hour, Sophie heard a knock at the door of her second-story chambers.
“You’re early,” she called gaily, reaching for the latch.
“Sophie McGann?” asked a fresh-faced young man with alarmingly crossed eyes.
“Y-yes,” Sophie replied, startled by the lad’s peculiar canted gaze.
“This is for you,” the boy replied. “Says I was to deliver it to your hands only. Must be off now. Good night.”
And before Sophie could reward him for his trouble, the lad disappeared down the gloomy stairway, passing Lorna, who was trudging up in the opposite direction.
“Not bad news, I hope,” Lorna said, as they shut the door behind them.
Sophie unfolded the sheet of foolscap, relieved to see the missive was written in a familiar hand.
“’Tis from Hunter. May I?” she asked of her friend.
“Of course,” Lorna replied taking a seat before the empty hearth. “I must admit your appearance at the Jubilee masquerade ball with that handsome rogue has been well-reported around Drury Lane,” she teased.
“I’ve no doubt,” Sophie replied, glancing down at the letter in her hand.
Darling Ariel…
’Tis torture to know you are here across the Piazza, yet I cannot be with you—for a time. Colman keeps me his slave with performances and rehearsals. Tonight I play in
Busy Body
against DL’s
School for Rakes
—both pieces by Petticoat Authors. You female Wits have captured both houses, it appears, and tomorrow ’tis Pistol in
Henry Fifth
.
Know that I long to ride the wind with you once again… and will escape from these constant rehearsals for a new piece Covent Garden debuts as soon as I am able. For the nonce, think of me as your duke who dreams of “answering your best pleasure”… soon… soon…
Your Prospero
Sophie gazed at the sheet, disturbed as well as elated. Then she heaved a sigh and slid the letter in the desk drawer.
“Something amiss?” Lorna asked with concern.
“Hunter is apparently working night and day on some new creation to be presented at Covent Garden. Have you heard any whispers as to what it could be?”
“’Tis about the Jubilee,” Lorna confided. “Mavis Piggott heard that from someone late this afternoon who had it straight from an inside player. Colman plans to mock the entire affair and Garrick will bear the brunt of it. The blackguard has rewritten some old chestnut and turned it into a
farce
satirizing the recent festivities in Stratford.”
Sophie was shocked how few secrets could be kept within the theatrical community. She glanced in the direction of the desk where she had stored Hunter’s letter.
“Now, Sophie,” Lorna chided gently. “Hunter is merely a contract player at Covent Garden. Did he say in his letter that he’s part of the new production?”
“Yes, but he didn’t disclose that ’tis intended to revile David Garrick,” Sophie replied moodily. “I realize he has little choice in the matter, but Garrick has been nothing but kind to him! If it weren’t for Mr. G, I doubt Hunter and I would ever have found our way back to each other. It pains me to think he would be part of an attempt to publicly humiliate the man!”
“And has not Garrick, in times past, parodied his rivals?” her friend queried gently. “’Tis the way of things between the two playhouses. ’Tis what gives spark and fire to our profession. As with love and war—all’s fair, Sophie dear.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she acknowledged with a sigh, “’tis just—”
“’Tis just the way things
are,”
Lorna interrupted. “Now get us to the Half Moon Tavern or your long-lost friend will faint from hunger during tonight’s
tours jêtés!”
***
Sophie spent the remainder of her first week back in London tidying her musty flat and printing the playbills for
Ode to Shakespeare,
which were to be distributed only hours before the Saturday performance. One afternoon she took her courage in hand and read through her partial draft of
The Bogus Baronet.
Later, over a cup of tea with Lorna, she acknowledged, “’Tis an amusing premise for a farce, but the dialogue lacks any spark.”
“If you recall that dreadful time when you wrote those pages,” Lorna protested, “’twas a miracle you even penned a word! You had just quit Peter’s flat and were hard-pressed to pay the lease on these rooms. You even took in Mary Ann Skene as a paying lodger!”
“Ah, yes, my amiable husband Peter,” she said with grim humor. “I haven’t laid eyes
on the man in donkey’s years. What hear you of his health and welfare?”
Lorna shook her head with disdain. “’Tis said he has attached himself to a high-born woman of disrepute. She presides over a nightly faro table at her home on Cheyne Walk.”
“And what of Roderick Darnly, our new Viscount Glyn?” she asked carefully. “Has he returned from Wales, do you know? He made no appearance at Stratford.”
“I’m told his father has little use of his limbs since the accident and that Darnly shoulders most of the responsibility for the family’s estates. Collins says, though, that the viscount has wearied of Wales and has written Lacy of his intention to return soon to consult about our new production,” Lorna said, raising a blond eyebrow.
“Ah, yes, Lacy likes it not if these extravaganzas cost too much. I don’t wonder that he wrote to Darnly first, to see if the nobleman had blunt to spare,” Sophie replied, wondering silently what changes she would find in the demeanor of the enigmatic man who had been her host a year ago.
“Perhaps my lord Darnly will underwrite the new scenery that depicts Stratford’s principal street,” Lorna speculated with a look of concern, “and thereby garner for himself more shares in Drury Lane?”
Sophie shrugged. “I doubt Lord Darnly would wish—or have the time, now—to manage such an enterprise, even if he should acquire more influence through mortgages on Lacy’s shares. ’Tis my view this pastime merely provides the viscount with amusement.” She smiled reassuringly. “Rather like Peter and his passion for faro.”
“I sometimes wonder what are the Viscount’s true intentions at Drury Lane,” Lorna replied dubiously. “He’s a strange one, I’ll be bound.”
Recalling the sight of Roderick Darnly, his factor, and the buxom Glynnis entangled on a mound of hay, she could only add, “I would wager that that only begins to describe the man.”
***
A few days later, the same cross-eyed messenger from Covent Garden appeared on Sophie’s landing bearing another missive.
Dearest Sophie:
Finally, the tyrant’s set me free! I dance only in
The Maid of the Mill
tonight and rehearsal for
The Recruiting Officer
Saturday concerns me not.
So, prepare thyself, O Water Sprite.
H. R.
As dusk approached, Sophie found she was both nervous and excited. Earlier in the day, she had delivered the notice to the news sheets that
Ode to Shakespeare
with chorus and orchestra would make its surprise debut at Drury Lane the following day, opposite
The Recruiting Officer
at Covent Garden. Saturday morning, the sudden change in program at Old Drury would be all the talk. Once it became generally known that Garrick also planned to present his own expanded staged version of the Stratford Jubilee, rumors about Covent Garden’s elaborate satiric broadside were sure to surface, especially because both presentations were being rehearsed at a frantic pace and involved scores of participants who dearly loved to gossip. The battle would soon be joined.
The night watchman called out the hour of midnight. Sophie looked up from the sheet of dialogue she had rewritten several times during the last hour and pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her shoulders against the September chill. In her abode, all was quiet. She dipped her quill once more into the pot of ink nearby and penned a few more lines, which she promptly crossed out, pursing her lips with frustration.
A few minutes later, she heard the sound of a heavy tread upon the stairs. The door to her quarters flew open, and Hunter burst into the chamber. His imposing presence filled the room.
Flinging down her pen, Sophie jumped to her feet and ran toward him, allowing him to fold her into his embrace. She tilted her head, fully expecting to be kissed. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his nose against hers.
“You received my missives?”
Sophie nodded, bumping noses.
“And you understand why I’ve not slept in your bed till now?” he asked with mock severity.
“You’ve been rehearsing,” she teased in return. “That, or you’ve been consorting with some other wench.”
“One wanton of your caliber is surely all this laddie could handle,” he retorted, pulling her close. “And do you know what I’ve been rehearsing?” he asked, wrapping a fistful of her hair around his hand and inhaling its scent.
“Rumors abound,” she whispered, staring into his blue eyes.
“Ah, yes
…
rumors,” he said softly, leaning forward to nuzzle his lips below her ear. “I hear all sorts of rumors as well.” He reached for the fastenings on her dressing gown and slowly, deliberately began to unhook them, grazing his fingers against her breast. “Let us forget about the playhouse tittle-tattle for tonight,” he said on a low breath. His fingers parted the thin fabric as his eyes absorbed the sight of her nakedness, “Bless me, Sophie… let us not talk at
all!”
Twenty-Eight
The sound of hawkers calling their wares along Half Moon Passage roused Sophie from a deep sleep. She released herself from Hunter’s possessive grasp, guessing the time to be just past dawn. She eased gingerly toward the edge of the mattress, motivated by her obligation to distribute the playbills that were stacked in the printing room. But before she could pull herself to a sitting position, she felt Hunter’s forearm hook around her waist, pulling her close to him again.
“No… no, dinna rise yet,” he mumbled, his Scottish accent reasserting itself in his groggy state. “I’ll not let you escape our bed… not for the entire day, wench!” he growled playfully, nibbling at the nape of her neck while he cupped one of her breasts in his large palm.
“Hunter!” she remonstrated, and then began to squirm as his hands and lips relentlessly tickled her tender flesh. “You’d best beware, you rogue!” she parried, darting her hand out to grasp the most sensitive portion of his anatomy.
However, before she could effectively neutralize his assault, Hunter captured both her hands and rolled her on her back. Entrapping her beneath his larger frame, he seized her wrists, pressing them into the pillow above her head.
“Surrender, minx!” he commanded, lowering his head to kiss her while pinning her firmly against the mattress. “Surrender, or I shall extract full punishment!” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, spine-tingling moment. Then Sophie smiled.
“Please do.”
He took her swiftly then, sensing, as she did, that they had no need of preliminaries this time. Their bodies, so in tune, ached with the same insatiable desire. When, at length, they lay quietly in each other’s arms, Hunter rested his head on Sophie’s shoulder.
“I think I shall sleep for a week and ’tis all your fault,” he declared softly, threading his fingers through hers. “You’ve quite exhausted me.”
“Well, sleep if you must, but I have work to do,” she teased, kissing the top of his head.
“You insult me,” he retorted in mock protest. “How can you think of your ink pot when such a handsome knave is in your bed?”
“’Tis not writing I must do. I have placards to deliver.”
“For Drury?” he asked, shifting his weight to his elbow. “What plays there this evening?” he inquired casually, toying with an edge of the counterpane.
“I’ll hazard a guess you know full well what’s playing tonight,” she declared, sitting abruptly upright in bed.