“Well… I fear I must be off,” Sophie announced tensely, doing her utmost to ignore the self-satisfied Miss More’s cheery farewell.
“You must be as exhausted as I,” Garrick sympathized. “But perhaps you’ll allow me to have a quick word before you go,” he added. “Hannah, dear, would you be so kind as to fetch me a brandy from the sideboard?”
While Hannah happily did Garrick’s bidding, Garrick patted Sophie’s hand reassuringly and said quietly, “Don’t be too discouraged. In fact, I think ’tis time you began work on that play you’ve talked about over the years… the one about Bedlam. You had such a good title for it, I recall.”
“School for Fools?”
Sophie asked, surprised that he would remember her mentioning it so long ago.
“Ah, yes…
School for Fools,”
Garrick mused. He cocked his head and cast her a piercing glance. “Now
there’s
a subject worthy of that biting wit you possess—and worthy of our stage as well. I hope you’ll consider my suggestion.”
“I shall, sir,” Sophie said humbly.
And Hannah More be
hanged!
she said silently.
***
“Captain Marshall! Captain Marshall!”
At the sound of his name, the master of the privateer
Jenny
halted his progress up the gangplank leading to his ship. He turned to stare at the tall, fair-haired man carrying a knapsack slung over his broad shoulders, who had hailed him from the dock. The travelers handsome features were moist with perspiration, thanks to the hot July sun.
“Robertson?” Captain Marshall exclaimed. “Why, greetings, my man! Had enough of juggling? I saw you perform in that tavern near Boston Common last week. I wondered how long you’d remain in this land of rebellious savages.”
“The rebels fought bravely enough at Bunker Hill in June, till they ran out of ammunition.” Hunter hiked his baggage further up onto his shoulder as he mounted the gangplank and followed the captain aboard. “But yes, I’ve had enough. Whatever might face me in London cannot be more dangerous than the bloodletting on these shores. Have you a berth for a man who can pay half fare and work off the remainder?”
Captain Marshall’s crew had been depleted by deserters seeking fame and glory in the British army that was massing against the upstart Continental forces. All he wished for now was to outrun any Continental ship that dared to challenge the swift
Jenny,
and return to safer waters around Britain. He gazed at Robertson speculatively, then nodded his assent.
“Grab a bunk below, laddie,” the Captain grinned. “At least you didn’t puke your guts out on that horrendous crossing in ’70… and I fancy you’re strong enough to hoist a jib. It may be chancy escaping these waters and avoiding the hurricanes, but we’ll call at St. Thomas and then make straight for home.”
***
Sophie clutched the first act of
School for Fools
beneath her cloak to protect it from the icy sleet pelting Drury Lane this January morning in the new year of 1776. Ducking her chin beneath her collar, she wondered whether spring would ever warm the British Isles again.
“Is he in?” Sophie asked Mr. Collins, who was presiding, as usual, over the theater’s stage entrance.
“Aye… in the Greenroom with the players and stage servants,” Collins replied gloomily. “’Tis finally come.”
“He’s
retiring?”
Sophie whispered.
Collins, his eyes brimming with emotion, nodded.
“The contract for the Patent was signed this morning.”
Sophie took a step closer to avoid being overheard.
“And who
are
the new owners of the Patent?” she inquired.
“Young Willoughby Lacy decided not to sell, so George Colman’s backed out. He didn’t want Will as a partner if he had the job of manager. What remains is a strange mishmash of investors. Richard Sheridan, at least, makes some sort of sense,” Collins commented dourly. “He’s a playwright and the son of theater folk. And I suppose that singing-master father-in-law of his, Thomas Linley, knows something about the theater. But there’s a
man-
midwife
named Doctor James Ford who’s involved, and some say even a brandy merchant! They’ve pooled their funds to purchase Garrick’s half of the Patent!”
“And the Earl of Llewelyn?” Sophie asked sotto voce.
“That’s the mystery in all of this,” Collins said, shaking his head. “I would have bet a month’s wages he’d be involved, but instead, his friend Doctor Ford, the physician to the queen, has stepped up to the mark.”
“Perhaps Llewelyn is a
silent
partner,” Sophie mused aloud.
“He’s a string puller, all right,” the doorkeeper commented glumly. “Likes to stay behind the scenes, that one does…”
“And he knows Garrick has no great fondness for him,” Sophie whispered. “If he were a declared partner, perhaps Garrick wouldn’t have sold to this group at all.”
“I hear our Davy got thirty-five thousand pounds for his shares,” Collins confided, his voice full of awe. “With his health so poorly, he was relieved to get the offer, I imagine.”
A brandy merchant and a man-midwife
—
supervising Drury Lane!
Would the public ever truly know who had purchased the right to manage and profit from one of the finest theaters in the world? Sophie wondered bleakly. And how could Sydney Ganwick continue to sell her wares and keep her true identity hidden among such unpredictable theatrical entrepreneurs?
Quietly, she made her way across the open stage, glancing at the cavernous auditorium’s gilt boxes. She tiptoed to the door of the Greenroom and melted in among the crowd listening intently to the actor-manager as he said his goodbyes. Mavis Piggott, who had suddenly reappeared in London the previous autumn, stared curiously at Sophie and, in an unexpected move, nodded in a gesture of welcome.
Mrs. Garrick sat in a chair near her husband. Next to her, Sophie noted with a sinking sensation, sat Hannah More. The former school mistress’s play had received a polite reception in Bath the previous spring, but the ambitious young woman had achieved much greater success in the role of surrogate daughter to the Garricks. Indeed, Hannah had recently left her lodgings on Henrietta Street and was now the Garricks’ semipermanent guest.
“I decided to wait till after Christmas to make this announcement to you all,” Garrick was saying calmly to his attentive listeners. “The contracts were concluded this morning. I shall remain a player until the end of this season, and after that, I shall be available for consultation as the new managers shall require—and as my uncertain health permits.”
As murmurs of reaction bubbled around her, Sophie’s spirits rose a trifle. Garrick would be “available for consultation.” Perhaps, then, he would remain willing to forward Sydney Ganwick’s work to them for their consideration, thereby preserving her secret authorship.
Sophie’s eyes drifted over to the Garricks’ new houseguest and they exchanged glances. The young woman wore a smug, self-satisfied air. In future, thought Sophie glumly, it might prove difficult, indeed, to obtain access to Garrick if it meant getting past the watchful Hannah More.
Once Garrick’s announcements were concluded, Sophie was among the first to depart the Greenroom.
“’Tis bloody bad luck for us all, that’s what it is,” a familiar voice said behind her. “A
midwife
running Drury Lane! What about it, Sophie… feel like a nip of ale to drown our sorrows? No point in not letting bygones be bygones, is there?”
Sophie turned and stared dumbfounded at Mavis Piggott. Her attitude of common cause made it appear churlish to refuse such an unexpected invitation.
“A quick one only, for I must get back to the print shop,” Sophie said, affecting nonchalance, and wondering silently if Mavis had any news fresher than Hunter’s latest missive.
The two women braved the cold January winds sweeping across the Great Piazza as they made their way to Half Moon Passage.
“So,” Mavis said abruptly when they had settled into a wooden-sided booth at the back of the tavern, “everyone tells me you’ve given up the quill.” Sophie nodded, guiltily fingering the few pages of
School for Fools
she’d hidden under her cloak when shedding it moments before. “Well, so have I,” Mavis announced grimly. “Now that I’ve been on both sides of the Atlantic, I see I cannot fight them—all those men. The managers, the dilettantes who think that by virtue of their station their words should reach the stage—not to speak of the
other
male playwrights who resent any woman who can write as well as a man.”
“I take your meaning, believe me,” Sophie murmured, wondering at Mavis’s candor.
“At least in America, one doesn’t have to contend with swine like Edward Capell, whose distaste for our sex precludes any impartial judgment of our works. However, I’m sure, when those Continental soldiers have had their ears pinned back by the redcoats, the British government will install some sort of examiner of plays in the Colonies as well.”
“Perhaps they’ll send Capell over
there,”
Sophie noted wryly. “That would improve things in Britain immensely!”
“But we would still have to compete with
female
wits who write a few fawning letters and versify on occasion and consider play writing a lark. These petticoat authors pout prettily in order to flatter failing old men—”
“Mavis!” Sophie interjected. “Garrick is ill, not old!”
“Oh, I know… I know… in your eyes the Great God Garrick can do no wrong,” Mavis protested, “even when he is soothed and petted by that sanctimonious charlatan, Hannah—”
“Really!” Sophie giggled. “Someone might hear you!”
“I don’t care!” Mavis pronounced, taking a last swig from her tankard and signaling the barmaid for another. She cast Sophie a speculative look and abruptly changed the subject. “I have it on good authority that my face and parts do not please our Mr. Sheridan, who, rake that he is, likes his morsels a bit fresher…” Mavis stared soberly at her companion. “I fear I shall be forced to become a common whore if I cannot get someone like the Earl of Llewelyn to keep me,” she announced bluntly.
“The earl has offered you protection?” Sophie asked, attempting to disguise her astonishment.
“Not yet,” Mavis admitted candidly, “but I think he’s going to. And that is why I’ve asked you to join me in a bit of refreshment. The earl may pose as a patron of the arts, but I’ll wager he cannot bring himself to dirty his hands with the real work of the theater. Lately he has shown some interest in my person and my ability to wield a pen. I think I could keep him entertained on both accounts…” She gazed at Sophie with a narrowing glance. “Darnly’s not still sniffing at your skirts, is he?” she asked sharply, “because if he is, and you play the rival with me, I’ll poison your next brew!”
“Blessed St. Ninian!” Sophie scoffed. “Whatever would make you think such a thing!”
“He quite fancied you at one stage,” she said matter-of-factly. “When that reprobate, your husband, was courting you in Bath and using the earl’s coach to do it, and Hunter and I had broken it off… I watched him watch
you
when the three of you were together. And after all, you did spend those four months in Wales…” Sophie did not respond, recalling only too well what Hunter’s reaction to that intelligence had been. “Since you and I have had the same taste in gentlemen in the past—”
“Well, I can assure you, Mavis,” Sophie interrupted at length, “I am not, nor have I
ever
been in the slightest fashion interested in an… ah… intimate association with the earl.”
Silently, she wondered if a voluptuous quasi-courtesan like Mavis Piggott could tip the scales in favor of the fairer sex as far as Darnly’s carnal inclinations were concerned.
I
can manage it with jades like Mary Ann,
he had confessed when dead drunk on Welsh whiskey.
Well, thought Sophie grimly, eyeing her longtime rival across the table—bully for her. Sometime soon, she wagered, the nobleman would certainly need to father an heir. Perhaps, if he took a mistress, or even a wife, he would finally resolve this inner conflict for himself—if that were, indeed, the reason he would consider Mavis as a companion.
“Some say your son is by Darnly,” Mavis suggested coolly, her eyes turning watchful and cunning.
“That’s pure rubbish!” Sophie laughed harshly. “One look at Rory would put
that
lie to rest!” she added firmly. She leaned over the table, her face inches from her long-time rival. “You may rest assured that your plans to snag the Earl of Llewelyn will receive no interference from me. I wish you success with all my heart!”
“Your
heart still pines for that rogue Robertson, doesn’t it?” Mavis asked cynically. “I wouldn’t hold your breath on his account, if I were you. He went off with some third-rate American manager to try to play New York, or maybe Boston, and he’s probably been chasing every petticoat in the New World.”