“I shall have a word with Sheridan when we return to London,” Garrick said reassuringly.
“Battle Royal
is timely and would, I believe, please the public—especially now. I’ve just heard that Ben Franklin managed to coax money and supplies out of the French foreign minister!”
During the autumn and winter, however, Sheridan and his partners wrangled among themselves about everything from the costs of candles to the casting of plays. Despite their box-office successes, it was February before the managers agreed to mount
Battle Royal
prior to Drury Lane’s closing in late May.
“Sheridan hasn’t committed to a specific date, mind you,” Garrick warned across his desk back at his apartments on Adelphi Terrace in London, “but ’tis a hopeful sign that he wants those provocative scenes about the bumbling British generals excised from the manuscript before the play is forwarded to Capell.”
“Do you honestly believe Drury Lane will ever mount our play?” Sophie asked, feeling deeply discouraged. “I
must
earn some blunt to prove to Hunter we’re making progress in paying off the blasted judgment! The poor darling grows more morose by the day. ’Tis not possible to keep a man of his size and sensibilities caged up and sane much longer. He’s even searching for some means of escaping the prison walls,” she added worriedly.
Garrick shifted painfully in his chair, his swollen limbs wrapped snugly in a checkered rug.
“Sophie, why will you not accept my offer of a loan for the seven hundred pounds?” he urged.
“Hunter won’t hear of it,” she replied, with a catch in her voice. “Seven hundred pounds is simply too enormous a sum to borrow from anyone—even a dear and generous friend.” She smiled wanly. “If
only
our play could see the light of day!”
***
As the spring of 1778 wore on, Sophie became so desperate for funds, she even agreed to allow the strumpet Mary Ann Skene to pay her two shillings a week to sleep on a pallet next to the printing press at the back of her lodgings.
“My wool merchant’s gone bankrupt. Down on my luck, I am,” Mary Ann complained with a pleading look when she encountered Sophie in Half Moon Passage and begged for temporary shelter.
“No more than I am,” Sophie retorted, recalling the ghastly trouble the whore had caused the day she brought fever-ridden Peter to her door more than a decade earlier. “Why not ask your former benefactor, Lord Darnly, for assistance?”
Mary Ann’s pinched, haggard face grew more anxious still.
“That actress… Mavis whatever-her-name… she’s got him under her thumb these days,” she whined.
“I doubt any woman can dictate to an earl,” Sophie retorted, offering silent thanks that Roderick Darnly had given her a wide berth since their confrontation the night of Hunter’s homecoming.
“I’ll pay you proper, see if I won’t,” Mary Ann promised as she pressed two shillings into Sophie’s palm. “That harpy Mrs. Douglas has played nasty with me at the Blue Periwig, but ’tis certain Mother Griffith will give me a place in a few weeks.”
“You’re to have nothing to do with my son, do you understand?” Sophie said sharply. In her mind she had already spent the two shillings on some fresh linen for Hunter. “You’re simply to be pleasant to the lad, sleep in your bed, and leave it at that. And as soon as you find a new… situation… you’re to be on your way. Agreed?”
At last, in early May, Sophie received word that
Battle Royal
had miraculously passed Capell’s critical eye after numerous changes and cuts. As promised, David Garrick kept the true identity of Sydney Ganwick secret, forwarding sealed requests for changes and new dialogue by messenger to Sophie, and then personally conveying Hunter and Sophie’s altered manuscript back to Sheridan.
“There’s great excitement about the debut of Sydney Ganwick’s latest comedy!” Sophie joked, attempting to rouse Hunter from his lethargy. “Even Mavis Piggott told Mrs. Abington at rehearsal today ’tis bound to please our patrons.”
Hunter merely shrugged and remained silent.
On the day of
Battle Royal’s
debut, however, Sophie was on edge herself.
“You’re like a cat on a griddle,” Mrs. Phillips declared, having shared a meal of coffee and smoked kippers that she’d fetched from the Half Moon Tavern. “A bit of chamomile tea to calm your nerves, perhaps?”
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said contritely to her old friend whom she had taken into her confidence regarding the authorship of
Battle Royal,
“but so much depends on the play’s success tonight!”
Her eyes followed her son as he gloomily returned to the printing room to correct a mistake he had made selecting letters to slide into the wooden form. Just then, Mary Ann stumbled through the door looking haggard from a night of plying her trade.
“Mornin’,” grunted the strumpet as she padded toward her bed. She began shedding articles of clothing as she progressed toward her ultimate destination. The woman seemed oblivious to the clanking of the printing press Rory operated adjacent to her sleeping chamber.
“God’s eyeballs!” Sophie said under her breath. “I play landlady to a whore, and then ask a seven-year-old to pull a lever I can barely manage myself! The season’s nearly ended, Mrs. Phillips,” she said in a low voice. “If the play fails tonight, I don’t know if Hunter will be able to stand—
”
“’Twill go splendidly!” the apothecary reassured her. “Lorna says the new scene is highly amusing.”
“What new scene?”Sophie said, surprised that any changes would be instituted at this late stage.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Phillips replied vaguely. “She was in earlier for those soothing foot salts I sell… mentioned some bit of business that was taken out and then restored. You’ll see soon enough yourself.”
But Sophie added this information to her catalog of worries.
What have they done to my play?
A few hours later, backstage, she began to pace up and down near the wings as the orchestra played the customary melodies intended to quiet the restive audience.
“Why so nervous, Sophie?” Roderick Darnly said, appearing suddenly from the shadows.
“Oh!” Sophie gasped. “You’re forever startling me… rising like a ghost out of the gloom. I… ah… I am only concerned for my friend Lorna Blount… she has quite a substantial part in tonight’s performance and suffers from pain in her feet.”
The earl advanced into a circle of light cast by the candle glowing in the wall sconce overhead.
“Ah, yes… she dances a jig as that Martha Washington creature, I gather,” he replied, observing her steadily.
“Um…” Sophie merely nodded, wondering how she could gracefully escape Darnly’s odious presence.
“But let us not talk of such frivolous matters as
Battle Royal,”
the earl said pleasantly. “You must tell me how
you
are faring… your son is well, I hope? We haven’t spoken for an age.”
Not since Hunter’s trial for Criminal Conversation initiated at your behest,
she thought bitterly.
The earl’s tone had become conciliatory. Suddenly, he reached for her hand and began to gently caress her wrist with his thumb.
“Hunter’s son is well,” she replied coolly, calmly removing her hand from his grasp. “The lad just celebrated his seventh birthday. The three of us get along as best we can, under the circumstances.”
“Seven hundred pounds…” Darnly said softly. “A man in Robertson’s plight could go forever without securing such a sum…” He gazed at her steadily. “If I can be of any assistance whatsoever…” he murmured.
Sophie took a step backward, her eyes
flashing.
“Let us not play parts, m’lord!” she snapped, barely holding her temper. “And let us not mince words, either. ’Twas
you
who brought Hunter to such indignity, not Peter Lindsay!” she exclaimed. “I cannot fathom why you wish to cause us so much grief, but clearly you do.”
“Robertson’s conduct toward your husband is the cause of his misfortunes, not mine toward him,” Darnly replied stiffly.
“That’s absolute
twaddle!”
Sophie replied angrily. “We know you forced Peter to sue Hunter for astronomical damages, blackmailing him with threats to have
him
cast in Newgate for past debts owed you if he did not do as you insisted.”
“A gentleman must make good on his IOUs,” Darnly replied.
“
Gentleman
!” Sophie spat. “You and Peter do that word a great disservice. But I feel nothing but pity for Peter and compassion that his addiction to gambling and drink has drawn him into the web of a man like you,” she added scathingly. She narrowed her eyes, unable to restrain herself further. “Your
conduct lately seems to include the rather nasty habit of employing
extortion,
m’lord, to attempt to accomplish whatever twisted purposes you devise. I don’t pretend to understand
why
this should be… all I know is that we all suffer for it… and if Peter should ever have the courage to tell the court he no longer demands these unwarranted damages from Hunter… the matter would be moot.”
“Peter Lindsay cannot afford to abandon hope of collecting money from the man who cuckolded him,” Darnly responded cuttingly, “for he owes
me
too much.”
“But, what if the judge, Lord Mansfield, learned ’twas you who forced Peter to file suit merely to seek revenge against Hunter for proving you a cheat at Sadler’s Wells?”
Darnly appeared momentarily startled by her words, but replied calmly, “’Tis my word against a bogus baronet, and against Robertson—a player of little note.”
“But if Peter himself should reveal to the judge what threats you used against him to bring this case to court,” she persisted, “or if Rosoman bore witness to the fact that you struck Hunter first and have a motive for revenge… what then?”
Darnly stared sharply at Sophie and then shrugged. A mocking smile began to play across his lips.
“Lord Mansfield surely knows that many things in this world are not what they appear. Take the mysterious author of tonight’s diversion, as one example,” he continued. “No one knows, really, who this Sydney Ganwick might be. Edward Capell is in the audience tonight, I understand,” he added. “It seems our government censor is annoyed by rumors certain cuts have been restored.”
“Really?” Sophie said tensely, feeling the color drain from her face. Had Roderick somehow discerned the identity of Sydney Ganwick? “’Pon my word, m’lord, but I can’t imagine such frothy fare
as Battle Royal
would merit his august attention.”
“From what I’ve seen of the piece, it doesn’t,” Darnly retorted, inclining his head in an abrupt farewell before striding off toward a door that led to his box.
Shaken by this exchange, Sophie raced for the peephole. Her spirits sank even lower at the sight of the mottled-faced examiner perched in the second gallery, a manuscript cradled in his lap. Just then, Mr. Hopkins, the prompter, called for places. Sophie then made her way in the semidarkness to the Greenroom where she found Richard Sheridan pouring himself a glass of spirits from a decanter on a table near the door.
“Good evening, sir,” Sophie greeted him.
“I cannot discuss finances now,” he replied brusquely. “I’ve got more on my mind than a few shillings for playbills.”
“I imagine you do,” she said, taking some satisfaction that he had no idea she was the author of the evening’s fare. “I understand Edward Capell joins us tonight… with a manuscript in his grasp. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“The little sod did not appreciate being overruled by Lord Hertford on
The School for Scandal…
so I suppose he’s here to see that we perform exactly what he has approved.”
“And are you?” she asked quietly. “Performing
exactly
what he approved?”
Sheridan took a long draught on his glass.
“I inserted a line or two from the original version,” he replied, affecting nonchalance. “That Ganwick is a witty chap and his work deserves to be presented as written. And since no one but Garrick knows who Sydney Ganwick really is, Capell can’t do much.”
“Until the unfortunate Mr. Ganwick submits his
next
work to the government censors,” Sophie retorted. “And I rather imagine Edward Capell can try to close you down.”
“Let him try!” Sheridan said angrily, finishing his drink. “Someone has to challenge that nickninny!”
Sophie spent the rest of the evening staring through the peephole at Capell, her stomach tied in knots. One moment her spirits soared when the audience fell into gales of laughter at the bumbling antics of foot soldiers in
Battle Royal.
The next instant, her hopes were dashed by the scowl darkening the mottled countenance of the Deputy Examiner of Plays.