“She didn’t!” Hunter responded.
“Aye. Fortunately for us, Parliament rescinded the bloody Townsend Acts ’bout the time we sailed from Norfolk—but they left the levy on tea, just to show the Colonials that England hasn’t yielded its right to tax ’em,” Captain Marshall explained. “The merchants and the customs collectors are an explosive combination, lad. My guess is the natives will fight this tea business too.”
Hunter stared across the water at Annapolis, shimmering beneath the hot sun this sultry spring day. So far, he observed, the town had been left undisturbed, despite its defiance of the king and his counselors.
Several other passengers ventured up on deck, including a number of Hunter’s fellow players. Their recruiter, John Henry, had remained in England to sign up additional actors from the nation’s provincial theaters. Suddenly, the men on deck were treated to the festive sound of pipes and drums, punctuated by the high-pitched whistle of piccolos, wafting over the gentle ripples in the bay.
Captain Marshall shook his head. “Damnation, if I know what they’re celebrating with such a bang. What day is this, Robertson?”
“May fifteenth, I believe,” replied Hunter, adopting Marshall’s bantering tone. “Perhaps ’tis some special holiday alien to us foreigners?”
Privately, Hunter had been keeping track of the passage of time during the months it had taken the
Jenny
to reach the West Indies and then—after waiting out a spate of hurricanes in St. Thomas—sail north to the Colonies. Their trip had been delayed further by port calls at Savannah and Charleston along the east seacoast, but the eight-month journey had provided Hunter with a fascinating glimpse of the land he would call home for a year.
As so often happened, he was struck suddenly by an intense desire to be with Sophie. Inevitably, his reaction to the new sights, smells, and tastes he had experienced since his mad dash overseas to escape Lord Darnly’s revenge for a righteous punch in the eye was to wonder what
she
would make of it all.
As soon as the ship was made fast, Captain Marshall gave the signal for the gangplank to be lowered, allowing Hunter and the rest of his fellow passengers to venture on shore. The sun beat down on his back and he could feel sweat seeping under the arms of his linen shirt. He made his way through knots of people who had come down to the quay to greet the ship and inquire about its enticing cargo. The piccolo brigade, it appeared, had been recruited to attract a crowd for just that purpose. The colorful sights, the smell of the fresh oysters and crabs piled high in baskets, even the steamy air filled Hunter with a happiness he had not felt in months—not since he had gathered Sophie in his arms in the small garret room above the inn near Sadler’s Wells.
Pushing such provocative memories from his mind, he focused on a sign board plastered on one of the brick buildings standing on the far side of the street. The announcement trumpeted a production of
The Beggars Opera
currently playing at the Annapolis Assembly Rooms, “temporary quarters of the American Company while the new theater is completed.” Nearby, a young boy called out headlines from
The Maryland Gazette,
founded, according to the masthead, in 1745 by one Jonas Green and maintained under the current editorship of his widow, Anne.
Sophie would certainly he pleased to know that!
he thought, smiling to himself as he tucked a copy of the journal under his arm. Hunter again found himself wishing Sophie were here to share this unexpected adventure. If only their situation had not been so risky, he would have sprinted back to Half Moon Passage and insisted she come with him!
Suddenly, a wave of unadulterated lust came over him, and for the first time in his life, he realized there was only one woman on earth who would satisfy the ache he felt—and she was two thousand miles away across a treacherous sea.
***
London, on the fifteenth of May, was not nearly as sultry as the Maryland Tidewater, but Sophie thought she would surely suffocate if she didn’t get some air.
“Please!” she pleaded weakly with Mrs. Phillips, who looked down at her with concern, “the bed linen… ’tis too hot…”
“You must keep warm… rest… ’tis too soon by at least a month for the bairn to be born,” the older woman replied firmly. “If you remain quiet and drink that watered brandy there,” she said, pointing to a glass filled with amber liquid, “you might not lose—you might wait till it’s your time. Lorna will call on you before she’s due at the theater late this afternoon. I’ve customers to attend to.”
And without further comment, the apothecary returned to her shop downstairs.
Sophie stared at the enormous bulge that was her own distended abdomen. A wave of fear washed over her. What if she died? What if the baby died? What if Hunter were
already
dead? She had not heard a word since she received the letter slipped under her door nearly eight months ago telling of his escape to the Colonies. Viscount Glyn, true to his threats, had filed charges of assault and embezzlement last October and departed for Wales, where he had remained all winter and spring, much to Sophie’s relief.
She pushed her hands under the counterpane and pressed her palms on the mound below her swollen breasts.
I couldn’t bear for you not to know your da,
she said silently, the familiar longing for Hunter invading her thoughts.
Please, please, please keep him safe…
She didn’t know whether she was praying for Hunter or the baby. In fact, she was astounded to find herself praying at all, having despised the clergy and all it represented for a lifetime. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
If you are there and are capable of any goodness or kindness at all…
please keep my baby and his father out of harm’s way, even if you decide I must
—
She pulled herself up short. She knew from past experience there was no bargaining with the fearsome deity the Presbyterian clerics insisted inhabited places like St. Giles in Edinburgh. She was angry with God, and He—it
certainly
was a He, she thought moodily—was angry with her. How else could one explain her becoming pregnant and Hunter departing far across the sea in one fell swoop?
Sophie’s eyes drifted toward her desk. She had buried the silver-tipped quill Peter had given her in the bottom of one drawer, preferring to use a swan’s feather pen she had purchased at Davies Book Shop down the road. Despite her anxiety and loneliness and her concern about the blood spots and cramping that plagued her of late, a satisfied little smile tugged at her features. She had two additional plays to her credit since Hunter’s departure! Well, not precisely to
her
credit, but just after Roderick had vanished to Wales last autumn, Garrick had asked for her help on an adaptation of a play called
Almida
by Dorothea Celesia, a dramatist Garrick had met on his European travels.
“She married a Genoese,” Garrick had explained one day in his dressing chambers. His foot was elevated on a stool, the result of an attack of gout brought on by too many fulsome dinners and abundant rounds of port. “She’s written an adaptation of Voltaire’s
Tancrede.
I’d
like you to read my notes on the piece and see what you can do.”
“But what of Capell?” she had queried. “After the way he refused to license my
Maid…
”
“We’ll devise a way to outfox that scrofulous little bureaucrat!” Garrick exclaimed. “He oversteps himself, even if he
is
an expert on Shakespeare.” Sophie had wondered whether Edward Capell’s complicity with Dr. Johnson and several other Shakespeare scholars in withholding support of Garrick’s Stratford Jubilee had finally soured the actor-manager toward the Deputy Examiner of Plays. “I swear Capell is getting more peculiar every day,” he added.
When Dorothea Celesia’s play was finally rewritten to Garrick’s satisfaction, Sophie resolved not to risk Capell’s wrath and kept her involvement in
Almida
a secret.
“This was an adaptation to begin with,” she reasoned in a final meeting before the play’s debut held with Garrick atop Drury Lane, “and you, sir, solved the plot problems yourself.”
“But even if you remain anonymous, you have no objection to a nice fee for the speeches you penned, if it plays well?” he had said chuckling.
Fortunately for all concerned, the tragedy had done quite nicely when it opened in the new year of January 1771. It had featured the compelling Mrs. Barry and played ten nights in repertory, alternating with the usual Drury Lane fare.
Even before the work had gone into rehearsal, Sophie had been certain she was pregnant. After her initial shock and her concern about what her estranged husband would do if he found out, she began to revel in her new state.
“You’ve not been sick, or you’ve hidden it well!” Lorna had marveled, giving her friend a hug when Sophie told her the news.
“I’d
best
hide the fact I’m not pregnant by my legal husband,” Sophie had replied, wondering how long her ample cloak, which she wore constantly, would keep her condition a secret. “Peter might be tempted to sue for damages claiming loss of honor!”
“You’ve not lived together for
years!”
Lorna exclaimed. “And he has taken shelter with any woman who would buy his victuals!”
“Ah… but he’s a man!” Sophie rested her hands gently on her belly. “Despite the dangers, ’tis a wonderful thing, this bairn,” she added softly. “’Tis as if Hunter’s left part of himself…”
And now his babe would soon be born—and born too soon, by the looks of it. Sophie shifted her weight on the mattress in an attempt to find a comfortable position—not an easy task, given her enormous girth. Despite her discomfort, she took pleasure in the memory of how, soon after
Almida’s
debut, she and Garrick had concluded an agreement for her to alter the character names and many of the scenes of her censored
A Maid Most Modestly Made
as a way of finally getting it on a stage.
“Shall I employ a male pseudonym?” she had asked her mentor.
“A capital idea!” Garrick crowed. “’Twill be a true test for that carping Edward Capell!” Garrick struck a dramatic pose, his forefinger pointing skyward. “Can that mincing little pen pusher sniff out a petticoat author under any and all circumstances? Let us see! What name will you take and when can I see the new pages?”
“I thought
Sydney Ganwick
might be nice,” Sophie said with a wicked gleam in her eye. “The name’s English as ale… but with a tip of the tricorner to McGann. I hope to have a completed draft by March, if that will suit?”
Garrick considered the pseudonym for a moment. Then he asked another question. “And have you thought of a new title for the work?”
“Strife for a Wife,
” she answered promptly.
Garrick threw his head back and laughed.
“If we outfox Capell, I’ll schedule it for… ah… let’s see.” He consulted his list of plays planned for the remainder of the 1770–1771 season. “April Fool’s Day seems a fitting date,
Sydney!”
He reached for a glass of port, despite his doctor’s orders, and saluted her. “Here’s to our mutually successful
Almida…
but I’m putting my faith in Mr. Ganwick. I hear he’s a brilliant young fellow.”
In a twinkling, McGann’s
A Maid Most Modestly Made
had been transformed to Ganwick’s
Strife for a Wife
and was speedily approved by the Lord Chamberlain’s office. Sophie’s share of the profits came to more than a hundred pounds. Not a paltry sum, she thought, for a play she had assumed would never see a stage. And with a man’s name on the title page, it had sailed past Edward Capell’s censorious quill! Who knew what future successes dear Sydney might pen?
At that point, Sophie was roused from her reverie by the sound of a sharp rap at her door.
“Lorna?” she called. “I’m so glad you’re here. Mrs. Phillips told me—”
“Sophie, my dear,” Roderick Darnly exclaimed, striding into her chambers, “I’ve just returned to London and was terribly upset to learn from the apothecary downstairs that you were ill—”
He halted halfway across the room, his eyes glued to the enormous mound protruding from under the coverlet.
“No… I am not ill,” Sophie cut in, dismayed to see Viscount Glyn, of all people, entering her lodgings, “merely enceinte.”
“And the father?” Roderick asked in a stunned voice. He seemed to be attempting to master his emotions as he took a step closer.
She glared up at him as he approached her bedside. “Surely you can hazard a guess. The man you’ve falsely accused of embezzlement.” She gazed at him narrowly. “And, pray, what brings you to my humble abode? I see your celebrated injuries left no lasting damage.”
“So you know of that blackguard’s attack? Well… of course, you do,” he amended himself, eyeing her belly. “Actually, my time in Wales did me a world of good,” he continued, regaining some of his composure. “My temper eventually cooled, despite Robertson’s unprovoked assault. You’ve no call to cast such baleful glances, my dear,” he added. “’Tis Thomas Rosoman, not I, who persists in demanding that the full extent of the law be brought to bear on that cheat.”