Sophie smiled bleakly as Eva-Maria kissed her farewell, and suddenly found herself wondering—certainly not for the first time—what the ambitious Miss More might do if she ever learned the identity of Sydney Ganwick. Would she see that Edward Capell found out?
“Good-bye,” Sophie offered, “and Happy Christmas if I shouldn’t see you until the New Year.”
“Thank you and God bless you, my dear,” Eva-Maria replied sadly.
And, strangely, Sophie did feel blessed.
***
Mindful of Edward Capell’s proscriptions, Sophie set to work on the required corrections of her manuscript. The pompous, menacing Dr. Monro whom Sophie had so feared when she was incarcerated in Bedlam with Aunt Harriet was depicted in
School for Fools
as an outlandish, laughable buffoon. He was full of self-importance, employing macabre devices and “methodology” that he ludicrously claimed would provide a cure for the “dear, demented souls” in his care.
Rereading the final version of her work in the early hours of Christmas day, Sophie became completely caught up in a world where the inmates were the rational beings and the keepers of the asylum, the insane ones. Turnkeys took bribes in businesslike fashion, technicians brandished feeding tubes as if they were ministering angels, and the crowds invading Bedlam for their Sunday amusement were mocked in wicked asides by inmates who appeared as lucid as the judges presiding at King’s Bench.
Heaving an enormous sigh, Sophie scratched the word
finis
at the bottom of the last page. At that moment, an exhausted Mary Ann Skene stumbled through the door, her nose scarlet from the frigid December morn. She headed directly for the cheerful coal fire burning in the grate and unceremoniously lifted her skirts to warm her backside. Sophie hastily gathered the pages scattered on her desk and whisked them into a drawer.
“Working so early?” Mary Ann commented with an inquisitive glance in the direction of the desk.
“Totting up figures on some of my printing accounts,” Sophie replied, seizing a bogus page of calculations and then making a show of organizing the papers on her desk before slipping them into a desk drawer. “I’d like to collect all monies owing by the new year and I thought to tackle the chore while Rory slumbers,” she added quietly, nodding at her son, still blissfully asleep.
“Will you visit Newgate today?” the strumpet inquired. “It must be a gloomy place on Christmas.”
No one but the Garricks and those attending the wedding ceremony knew that Sophie and Hunter had officially wed. She had taken this precaution to forestall the possibility that some busybody might question the propriety of her taking a new husband so soon after Peter’s death. Besides, she had envisioned a proper wedding at St. Paul’s, once Hunter was released from prison.
“I rather think I might go ’round there today,” Sophie responded casually. “Bring the poor blighter a bit of that plum pudding Mrs. Phillips is so proud of.”
“Me… I just want to sleep,” Mary Ann yawned, scratching herself in the most unladylike fashion.
***
The Garricks departed for Althorp, the home of Lord and Lady Spencer, December 30, and so did not witness the phenomenally successful debut and run of
School for Fools
in early January. By the twelfth day of the new year, 1779, Sophie calculated her author’s fees to be upward of three hundred pounds. Unfortunately, she couldn’t collect the money until Garrick returned to London and pressed Sheridan, on Sydney Ganwick’s behalf, for a full accounting.
“Sophie, you are a clever, clever lass!” Hunter crowed when she told him the news and showed him the journal articles extolling her play.
Newspaper editorials trumpeted the work’s call for reform, and rumors of another Parliamentary inquiry into practices at the nation’s asylums began circulating.
“I just pray Dr. Monro isn’t summoned before Parliament again. What if he learns that Sydney Ganwick is really Sophie McGann—”
“Sophie McGann
Robertson,”
Hunter chided her with a smile.
“All this talk of calling another inquiry to examine conditions at Bedlam could prompt Monro to cry ‘libel’ against me again. I merely wrote an amusing farce, but the lord only knows what he’d stoop to in defense of his nefarious medical practices.”
Hunter smiled broadly, drawing her into his arms. “Be honest, Sophie, your little comedy has achieved exactly what you intended. But dinna worry, lass,” he bantered in an echo of his Scottish brogue, “there are many in the medical profession who agree with you. Allow
them
to
shoulder the call for reform from now on. For us, your play means that we can soon afford to hire the best barrister in the city to persuade Lord Mansfield that I should be set free!”
“Oh, Hunter, I pray that will be so.”
***
Sophie and Hannah More sat side by side in the Garricks’ box as the audience’s laughter rang in their ears. Like a proud parent, Sophie had witnessed the production of her tragicomedy each night from this prized vantage point overlooking the pit. She had assumed that at some point Hannah would exercise her right of proprietorship as the Garricks’ constant houseguest and claim a seat to determine what all the fuss was about—and tonight, here she was.
Drury Lane was packed to the rafters on this fourteenth day of January, and it seemed as if everyone was either doubled over in mirth or sitting with tears running down their faces. Sophie noticed that even Hannah looked as though she’d been moved by the play. Furthermore, Sheridan had slyly replaced a few lines ordered cut by the censor back into the dialogue. Fortunately, on this particular night, Edward Capell was nowhere to be seen.
As the final curtain closed and loud, appreciative clapping resounded from the audience, Sophie felt a hand clutch her wrist.
“You’ve written an
extraordinary
play!” Hannah exclaimed, her eyes
shining. “’Tis amusing and poignant and sends a message as well. You should be so proud!”
Sophie stared openmouthed at her theater companion, dumbfounded and alarmed. This woman whom she so disliked was privy to one of the most crucial secrets in her life! Eva-Maria Garrick—certainly not David—must have trusted Hannah More absolutely to have revealed that Sophie was the genuine author of Sydney Ganwick’s plays. Either that, or the woman had finally managed to gain complete control over the household at Adelphi Terrace. Before Sophie could recover from her shock, however, Lord Darnly suddenly entered their box.
“Good evening… Miss More… Miss McGann,” announced the Earl of Llewelyn. “’Twas most gratifying to witness two such accomplished young women gracing this celebrated box tonight. Is your patron still absent from London?”
“Yes,” Hannah answered, pleased to be the object of such flattering attention from a premier aristocrat of the realm. “However, I have word they are returning from Althorp late tonight or on the morrow. I fear Mr. G. has been particularly unwell.”
“How unfortunate,” Lord Darnly murmured, casting Sophie an appraising glance.
In early autumn, Darnly had decamped for Wales again to attend to his estates. Rumors abounded that he and Mavis Piggott had parted company during his absence, and the proof of such hearsay could be seen directly opposite from where the three were now standing. The actress was staring at them from a box presided over by one of Darnly’s fellow club members, Viscount Wick.
“And you, Sophie?” Darnly inquired genially, ignoring Mavis’s stony glares. “Does not witnessing such brilliant theater make you nostalgic for your quill?”
Sophie stiffened. She refused to glance at Hannah, for fear the woman would say something foolish to the earl.
“Not at all,” she said quickly forcing a smile, “the play’s success has been good for my printing business. Extra performances mean extra play bills!”
“Ah… how fortunate for you,” he commented dryly.
“Well… I fear I must beg your leave,” Hannah said, donning her cloak. “I must hasten to Adelphi Terrace in case the Garricks have returned.” Garrick’s self-appointed nurse quickly extended her farewells.
“Please convey my hopes for Mr. Garrick’s recovery,” Sophie said earnestly, doubtful any such message would ever be passed on.
Then, as Hannah left the box, Sophie, too, gathered her cloak from the back of her chair and prepared to depart. On stage and within the auditorium itself, candle snuffers were going about the business of extinguishing the hundreds of tapers that lit the playhouse each performance. A pungent odor of tallow and sulfur hung heavily in the air.
“Sophie,” Lord Darnly said suddenly. “I need to have a word with you. May I offer you refreshments at my home?”
“I think not, m’lord,” Sophie said slowly. “Our last conversation, you will recall, did not conclude on the friendliest of terms, and I fear—”
“I understand,” he interjected smoothly. “Then we can speak here, if you like. Please take a seat.”
Helpless to do anything else, Sophie reclaimed the chair she had just vacated. A clatter behind the closed curtains indicated that a stage servant had dropped something heavy.
“I hope they don’t break the new scenery I purchased,” Darnly noted mildly.
“You invested in
School for Fools
?” Sophie asked, startled.
“Let us say I provided one of the partners some financial assistance, and have been well recompensed for my trouble,” he replied with a satisfied air. “I find it amusing to wager a bit of blunt on the works of playwrights I deem worthy…”
“How fortunate that you will be so well repaid for your daring,” Sophie murmured.
“That it is… and inspiring, wouldn’t you say?”
“To sit in the audience at such a play? Yes, I would say so,” she answered, wondering where the conversation was heading.
“We have so many amusements in common, do we not?” Lord Darnly ventured pleasantly. “Enjoying the cleverness of Sydney Ganwick is one of them, I would imagine.”
Sophie felt her stomach muscles tighten. Once again she began to worry that Darnly had guessed her secret.
“While I was in Wales,” he continued conversationally, “I had an opportunity to ponder many subjects, including the subject of you, my dear.”
“Oh?” Sophie replied warily.
“This sojourn provided an occasion to think on the course of my life… my youthful mistakes… the harm they may have caused certain people,” he added somberly. “Perhaps Peter Lindsay’s death filled my head with gloomy musings, but I now realize that I desire something more in my life…”
A yearning to be a respected author perhaps,
Sophie speculated silently.
“Such thoughts, I fear to say, tend to come with our advancing age,” she replied with false cheer.
“I have decided that it is an auspicious time for me to select a… life partner,” he continued, gazing at her steadily. “Someone who shares my interests and amusements.”
Sophie was surprised, but relieved. The man was once more without a mistress and simply wished to remedy his loss—perhaps to appear more like his fellows. She had dealt with this before.
“I am aware that on several previous occasions I merely offered to make you my paramour,” he said quietly, taking her hand. “Now… I wish to make you my wife.”
Sophie stared at him, speechless for several seconds.
“Your
wife?”
she gasped at length. “Why, that’s preposterous!”
“Why, preposterous?” he answered sharply. “I am an earl, with sizable estates. I sit in the House of Lords. I am not
unknown
to possess some wit. I as good as have an interest in this theater! I may soon
own
this
establishment, if certain other managers aren’t careful! I—”
“’Tis not a preposterous proposal because of
you,”
she interjected quickly. “’Tis preposterous because of
me.
I am far from nobly born, and besides—”
“Ah, but you are a woman of noble talent, my dear. I do not think it absurd that an earl should offer for the hand of a proven writer of plays.”
“A mere bookseller for years now, m’lord,” Sophie corrected him. Judging it prudent to leave his dignity intact, she added formally, “I am honored that you should consider me a suitable choice for a bride, m’lord.”
“Roderick…
please,” he murmured. “We were once friends, Sophie, you’ll remember…”
“Aye, Roderick,” she amended.
She gazed at him across the gloomy theater box, reminding herself of the times they had greatly enjoyed each others’ company, especially during the early weeks of their sojourn to his homeland. Perhaps, now that he had assumed the earldom, his family was increasingly anxious that he should marry and sire an heir. With Hunter conveniently in prison, was Darnly turning to her, a proven breeder, as the least objectionable candidate?
“Roderick,” she repeated gently, “there are several reasons why I fear I cannot marry you.”