“I know…I know….I’ll be good.”
“You
are
good,” he chuckled, extending his arms. “Come over here, lass… have you an extra shilling to buy permission to spend the night? Since I am already incarcerated for having Criminal Conversation with you, my love, I’m ever so anxious to commence conversing,” he added, boldly stroking her breast through the bodice of her cotton gown.
“Oh, Hunter…” Sophie groaned, peering over his shoulder to see if the turnkey was staring in at them, “you know I cannot concentrate on my work if you persist…”
“I shall persist, so you might as well surrender your quill,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
“We
mustn’t,”
she said in a breathy voice, feeling a familiar warmth seep into every pore. “I neglected to bring the French letter Mrs. Phillips so kindly provided us… and as much as I long to— If I were to get with child now, I—”
“I know…” he said, suddenly sober. He kissed her gently. “’Tis just the sight of you nibbling that quill makes me randy… it makes me think of—”
“Don’t
say
it!” she laughed ruefully. “I’m in quite the same state, I assure you, you rake. Let us return to our task and I’ll remember Mrs. Phillips’s gift when next I pay you a call!”
***
Sheridan had, after much delay, granted Sophie the playbill concession under his new management at Drury Lane. Just as Darnly had predicted, however, he often neglected to pay her in full. When she requested the dramatist-manager settle his accounts, he simply shrugged and protested ’twas a trifling amount and she would have to wait a while longer.
“Sheridan hasn’t the skill Garrick had in managing the business of a playhouse,” Lorna commented sourly one morning. “He’s so preoccupied with mounting his
A Trip to Scarborough
this month and writing some other new farce, he scarce attends to anything else.”
“Well, I
must
have my funds,” Sophie said unhappily. “The lease on my lodgings will soon be owing and I need money to give those brigands at Newgate to purchase Hunter’s comforts. The poor man hardly complains, but ’tis galling for him to be caged like an animal and dependent on me for every tankard of ale…”
Finally, by March 1777, Sophie and Hunter felt prepared to submit
Battle Royal
to Garrick for his opinion.
“He received your note that you wished to see him, but he’s not been at all well,” Hannah More said peering at Sophie over the butler’s shoulder when the servant answered the door. “I’m sure you will understand if today he does not—”
“Why, Sophie McGann!” A Viennese-accented voice called down from the second floor of the Garrick residence on Adelphi Terrace. “How
kind
of you to call! Davy, ’tis Sophie come to see you. I’m sure Hannah will make you welcome. I shall be down directly!”
“I only thought to spare him—”
“Of course you did,” Sophie cut in sarcastically as the butler ushered them both into the small front sitting room. “And how goes your latest play?”
“Mr. G. and I have conferred for nigh nine months, and without him, I’m certain I should have cast it in the fire long ago… but everything he touches turns to gold… literary gold, I mean,” she corrected herself primly. “He says he will write the prologue and epilogue for
Percy.
Isn’t that wonderful?”
Sophie ignored her prattle as Mrs. Garrick entered the room and bestowed a friendly kiss on her cheek.
“He’s had another bad attack of the stone, you know,” Eva-Maria said, lowering her voice. “He bids you visit him upstairs.”
Relieved to escape Hannah’s unwelcome presence, Sophie was shown to a small study on the second floor where David Garrick was propped in a wing-backed chair, looking unwell.
“And have you brought me something to read?” he smiled faintly after Sophie had given him the latest details about Hunter’s incarceration for debt.
“Yes, we’ve both authored it,” she replied, withdrawing the manuscript from beneath her cloak. “Although I’d like to submit it as Sydney Ganwick, if you consent,” she proposed.
“A wise choice,” Garrick agreed, leafing through the manuscript. “And young Rory… how is he?”
“Nearly six, sir,” Sophie smiled. “And the image of his da.”
Within two days, Sophie received a note with the welcome news that Garrick considered
Battle Royal
an amusing diversion.
Considering that all London talks of the rebel general George Washington driving British troops from New Jersey, this comical approach might bring relief. I shall send it on to Sheridan in the name of S. G. as we’ve agreed, with my full-fledged recommendation he mount it forthwith.
My regards to your joint author and I pray this work shall win him his freedom. If not, you must consider my offer of assistance.
Yrs. D. Garrick
“Perhaps we should accept his offer of a loan,” Sophie ventured on her next visit to Newgate.
“I wish to earn my own way out of this trap, if you don’t mind,” Hunter replied tight-lipped.
Seeing the last remnants of his tattered pride stretched to the breaking point by the thought of her benefactor loaning them the enormous sum of seven hundred pounds, Sophie merely nodded and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
***
In early April, Sheridan sent word to Garrick who informed Sophie, also by letter, that although he very much liked Sydney Ganwick’s latest effort, the Drury Lane managers could not afford to mount it until the 1777–1778 season.
The week before Rory’s sixth birthday, Sophie and her son celebrated the occasion by her teaching him how to operate the hand press located at the back of her lodgings.
“That’s right, lovey… just slip those metal letters in the form.
There!
You’ve done ‘
The School for’
perfectly,” she smiled down at his tow head industriously bent over his work, “Now, how do you spell ‘
Scandal?’
One more word and the name of Mr. Sheridan’s play will be correct. Just think, you’ve become my printer’s apprentice and learned to
read
at the same time!”
“But Mr. Sheridan’s taken the title for
your
play,” Rory complained, his small fingers deftly sliding an
s
into the form.
“No… no he hasn’t,” Sophie corrected her son, smiling. “I’ve not finished writing
School for Fools
yet. And playwrights have always been fond of using the word
School
in their titles, for some reason. There’s
School for Rakes… School for Wives…
” she laughed. Then her face grew sober. “Rory, dearheart, you must
never
discuss with anyone besides Mrs. Phillips and Lorna that mama writes plays, for it could go badly for us,” she added urgently, wondering if Hannah More had pried out of her mentor the true identity of Sydney Ganwick.
“Not even tell Papa?” Rory asked anxiously.
“Of course Papa knows,” Sophie acknowledged.
“But he’s in prison,” Rory said sadly, “so he won’t tell.”
“Aye…” Sophie nodded, her heart constricting. “That’s why ’twill be such a help if you can learn to print these single sheets, my lad. Then your da and I can concentrate on writing some plays whose author’s fees are bound to bring him home!”
***
To Sophie’s dismay, nearly a year had gone by without their having the funds to secure Hunter’s release. Reflecting on this desperate situation, she stood quietly in the wings watching Richard Sheridan supervise a rehearsal for his latest play,
The School for Scandal.
Despite the obvious brilliance of its dramatist-manager, Drury Lane had foundered during the previous season without Garrick at the helm.
“No… no, that will not
do,
Mrs. Abington,” Sheridan declared to the formidable actress who glared back at him. He leapt from his chair on the forestage. “You mustn’t
whine
when you say ‘How dare you abuse my relations!’ You are to turn and sweep down on your nemesis like a
volcano!
Don’t you agree, David?” Sheridan asked, turning to the former manager of Drury Lane.
Perhaps in response to the rumored production problems, Garrick had been at the author-manager’s side during most rehearsals and had written the prologue to the play in preparation for its debut the following evening.
“Exactly, Richard,” Garrick nodded, resting his gout-ridden feet on a footstool.
“There’s worse to come!” whispered a voice in Sophie’s ear. The prompter, Mr. Hopkins, who had just arrived backstage, pointed to a copy of Sheridan’s play tucked under his arm. “Capell’s just refused Sheridan’s play a license!”
“No!” she replied with disbelief. “That toady can’t have turned it down!” Despite her irritation with Sheridan, Sophie was the first to admit that
The School for Scandal
was among the wittiest comedies she’d ever seen performed on a stage. “What will Richard
do?
The play’s to debut
tomorrow!
I have already finished the placards and come here to secure payment for them.”
“Capell’s objections involve some foolish political nonsense,” Mr. Hopkins explained in a low voice, “that have nothing to do with Sheridan’s intentions in writing the play.” Hopkins squared his shoulders and marched across the stage, conferring in whispers with Garrick and Sheridan. The playwright’s face grew flushed and he suddenly picked up the chair he was sitting on and hurled it across the stage, narrowly missing the surly Mrs. Abington.
“I shall go at once to speak to the Lord Chamberlain myself!” Sheridan declared, practically shouting.
“Now, now, Richard,” Garrick urged, “try to compose yourself. Make your protests to his lordship reasonably and calmly, my boy.”
Fortunately, Lord Hertford found this tempest in a political teapot as ludicrous as Sheridan, and the Lord Chamberlain himself quickly overrode the verdict of his deputy examiner of plays.
The School for Scandal
was speedily granted a license, and it opened May eighth, as scheduled.
“’Twas absolutely brilliant!” Sophie reported excitedly to Hunter the next morning, having witnessed Sheridan’s triumph from the vantage point of the Garricks’ private box. “Richard got so drunk following the performance, however, he was nearly arrested by the watch!”
Hunter stared gloomily out the window of his prison cell, and offered no response.
“Drury Lane’s managers have no excuse not to pay their debt to me now,” Sophie added cheerfully. “I heard they took in three hundred pounds last night!”
“I shouldn’t count on him paying,” Hunter said morosely.
Sophie glanced at his scowling countenance with concern. The bright green leaves sprouting on the trees outside the prison reminded them both of the full year that Hunter had been shut up in Newgate. His spirits had been steadily sinking in the face of another long summer during which the major playhouses would be closed. Worse, there was still no guarantee their
Battle Royal
would be mounted in the new season, come September.
“Please, darling,” Sophie urged, placing her hands on Hunter’s shoulders as he continued to stare moodily out his cell’s narrow window, “don’t lose heart now.
Battle Royal
is witty and pithy and bound to be popular with audiences—”
“Even if Sheridan fails to gamble away his winnings from Drury Lane’s current success,” Hunter prophesied darkly, “and even if he chooses to mount our play, it will never survive Capell’s razor!”
“Now, you’re sounding like
me!”
Sophie teased.
“At this rate, I’ll be an old man before ’tis acted on a stage,” he replied, failing even to smile at her jest.
During July and August, Hunter’s morale grew even worse. And as the summer evenings turned cool and crisp and Drury Lane prepared for the 1777–1778 season, Sophie feared Hunter’s dismal forecasts might prove correct, but for a reason even he did not anticipate.
The School for Scandal
was such an enormous favorite with theater patrons that London audiences wished to see little else. The play had been presented an unprecedented twenty times at the end of the prior season and was in demand from critics and public alike as the new season got underway.
“The School for Scandal
seems to be the
only
play the public wants to see!” Sophie complained good-naturedly when she paid a visit to the Garricks in late October at their country house in Hampton, outside London. Rory, whom she’d brought with her at the Garricks’ request, had been whisked away by a jovial nursemaid. This allowed Sophie and her hosts to repair to their sitting room, which was decorated with exotic Chinese furniture and oriental knick-knacks. To Sophie’s infinite satisfaction, Hannah More remained in Bristol with her family.