“Well, you’re
not
going to tell him, are you?” Sophie demanded, angrily brushing the tears from her eyes, “or anyone else, for that matter. Especially not now, when I—when so much is in a tumult,” she finished lamely, thinking how dangerous it would be for her if Dr. Monro—to say nothing of Darnly—should confirm the true identity of the author of
School for Fools.
“Never fear… I won’t reveal your secret,” Richard assured her, amused by it all. But Sophie wondered if a man of such a gregarious nature could resist dispensing this intriguing gossip.
“I’m afraid I must now request my fees…” she said, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.
“Well…” Richard replied, eyeing her appraisingly, “I suppose with such a champion as David Garrick, I’d
better pay his protégé, eh, Sophie?” He retreated into the Treasure Room and brought out a strong box. “Four author’s night benefits thus far, comes to…let’s see… four hundred and twenty-two pounds. God’s Bones! Haven’t paid
that
much blunt to a
woman
in ages!’’ he teased.
“And seven pounds for the playbills you owe me in arrears!” she retorted, declining to laugh at his jest.
Sheridan cast her a pained look and counted out the money—£429. Within the hour, the cash was secreted behind a panel in Aunt Harriett’s old trunk.
***
Within a few days, all of Covent Garden knew that David Garrick had slipped into a coma, and soon a vigil began among the legions of friends and theater folk to whom he was, indeed, a kind of God.
On the evening of Tuesday, January 19,
School for Fools
was scheduled to be paired with
The Merchant of Venice.
To date, Sophie had no idea whether Hannah More had forwarded Garrick’s letter to Lord Mansfield. Adding to her despair, the jail keeper had once again refused her admittance to Newgate.
By the time Drury Lane had opened its doors at five thirty, Sophie was beside herself with anxiety on all counts. She couldn’t bear to sit in the Garricks’ theater box as David lay dying less than half a mile away at Adelphi Terrace. Thus she remained in the Greenroom. During the orchestra’s interlude, she wandered aimlessly among the wings with Lorna Blount. In an attempt to raise her spirits, she peered through the peephole at the packed theater.
“Oh
no!”
she wailed.
“What is it?” Lorna asked with alarm.
“Capell… sitting in the box on the left! He’s got a manuscript in his lap! And Dr. Monro is sitting
next
to him.”
“Bloody hell! Let me see,” Lorna replied, elbowing Sophie out of her way to gain a clear view through the peephole. “Jesu! Dr. Monro… What’s
he
doing here, do you suppose?”
“I can only guess,” Sophie said grimly. Throughout the performance of
School for Fools,
Sophie tortured herself by keeping an unwavering eye on Capell. The Deputy Examiner of Plays sat poised, pen in hand, waiting to pounce on the smallest deviation from the text he had approved.
There were four times when Sophie saw him scribble something on the manuscript resting in his lap. Occasionally he was nudged in the elbow by Dr. Monro, who stared at the stage, stone-faced. By the time the final curtain closed, Sophie was faint with apprehension.
The audience was still clapping when Edward Capell stormed backstage and demanded in a strident voice that he wished to see the managers. Dr. Monro was nowhere in sight.
“You are up to your old tricks, Sheridan!” he said, lips pursed as he strode imperiously into the Greenroom.
“God’s wounds, Capell,” Sheridan said genially. “I defy you to find two lines that have been altered since opening night.”
“That’s exactly the problem!” he snapped. “Two lines
have
been altered.”
“And you are going to close us down over that?” Sheridan said incredulously.
“The actors have added stage business that wasn’t present in the stage directions noted by the author,” Capell insisted petulantly. “Bannister renders the asylum director a fool, with all his facial tics and grimaces.”
“Aren’t you the Deputy
Examiner
of Plays?” Sheridan asked pointedly. “Didn’t you
examine
this work line by line? What in the
written text
can you find fault with, besides those two lines to which you object and which we agree to cut forthwith?”
Capell’s lips compressed in a thin, tight line. His hands, which clasped Sophie’s manuscript, shook perceptibly.
“I have received information that Sydney Ganwick may be the pseudonym of a
female
scribe,” he spat. “I am much displeased to have been deceived in this for so long!”
“I can’t imagine what would have led you to that conclusion,” Sheridan said blandly. “For years, most have believed Sydney Ganwick to be the pen name of some nobleman who fears the notoriety that sometimes comes with fame. ’Tis even been whispered that Lord Darnly, over there, might be he.”
The Earl of Llewelyn, who had slipped quietly into the Greenroom, shot a poisonous glance at Sheridan.
Sheridan shrugged, continuing, “As I’ve said to others in the room, I suspect ’tis Garrick himself who writes as Sydney Ganwick for amusement. Even so, I don’t know of any law that says ’tis
forbidden
that a woman should use a pen to earn her pin money.”
“Perhaps no law, but
custom
finds it most distasteful,” Capell retorted.
“When you present proof of law breaking, good sir,” Sheridan shrugged, “then I shall have a care. But for now, our playhouse is well patronized and there seems little disapproval from other quarters regarding our Mr. Ganwick’s efforts. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“I
demand
you identify Sydney Ganwick on pain of perjury!” Capell shrieked, refusing to be dismissed so ignominiously. “If not, I shall seek a summons for such intelligence sworn out in the name of the king!”
“I have a bona fide license to present this play!” Sheridan protested. “Signed by your hand!”
“I
rescind
it!” Capell shouted shrilly. “And I shall give you until tomorrow to reveal the true identity of Sydney Ganwick. If you do not, I have every assurance my informant will give me the name and a catalog of her transgressions against the law. And, in addition, sir,” Capell continued, his voice shaking with anger, “there is a gentleman who finds certain characterizations in this work libelous in the extreme. No doubt, you shall be hearing from him as well!” He glared menacingly at the manager. “You, Mr. Sheridan, shall be
added
to this warrant for obstructing the office of the Lord Chamberlain if you do not reveal the true name of this odious Sydney Ganwick. Good night!”
Sheridan stared at the retreating back of Edward Capell, a look of astonishment and concern playing across his features. Sophie could almost see the calculations of lost revenues whirling in his brain, not to mention the cost of defending a personal lawsuit.
A few minutes later, Sophie pleaded behind closed doors in Sheridan’s upstairs chambers.
“You
mustn’t
reveal I am Sydney Ganwick!”
“What can I do, Sophie?” Sheridan replied worriedly. “Jeopardize the entire playhouse over this? Frankly, I cannot afford to.”
“I will pay the losses if you must close down a day or two… just, pray,
don’t
reveal my identity,” she begged.
“Will you put that in writing?” he asked sharply.
“Hand me your quill,” she replied.
“Capell’s fury is hard to fathom,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he tucked Sophie’s pledge in his coat pocket. “And he claims to champion someone who finds the play libelous… why does not the person step forth himself?”
“I’ll wager Capell’s angry with himself for being fooled for so many years by a mere woman writer he thought was a man,” she speculated. “As an expert in comparing bogus and genuine Shakespeare texts, he fancied he could tell the difference. And as for the person claiming libel…” Sophie shrugged, affecting a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel, “’tis probably all bluster.”
Bidding Sheridan a somber farewell, she slipped out the stage entrance and made her way to Adelphi Terrace. Despite the late hour, candles glowed in every window. The vigil continued.
“I think it best if Mrs. Garrick not have any more visitors,” Hannah More said crisply when the footman informed her that Miss McGann had called to receive word of Garrick’s condition. “I’m sure you understand her wish for privacy at this time.”
“Your
wish, I’ll wager,” Sophie muttered, wondering for the hundredth time if the schoolmistress from Bristol had ever forwarded Garrick’s letter to Lord Mansfield asking for Hunter’s release.
“I’m only doing what I think best,” Hannah replied defensively. “You’ve just come from the theater? How goes your play? Did it continue to find favor tonight?”
“How curious you should ask… at
this
particular moment!” Sophie retorted to the woman she deemed her fiercest competitor for the Garricks’ affections. “Did you forward that letter to King’s Bench, as requested?” she blurted angrily. “And have you tattled to anyone that I am Sydney Ganwick?”
Hannah stared at her blankly, obviously rattled by the rancor underlying the visitor’s inquisition.
“I will not lower myself to grant you an answer to such insults!” Hannah retorted.
During the awkward moment that ensued, Sophie gathered her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and simply turned on her heel and fled.
Speeding toward Half Moon Passage across the frigid darkness shrouding the Great Piazza, she could only rail silently against the insensitivity of Hannah More and the injustice of Edward Capell.
Now, the question was, who had told the woman-hating censor that Sydney Ganwick was a female—and who wanted her silenced?
The loud battering on Sophie’s door the following morning roused her before she was fully awake. Her heart pounded as she stumbled toward the threshold. Fumbling to unfasten the latch, she could hear a woman’s voice urgently calling her name. Lorna Blount, looking distraught, faced her on the landing.
“Oh, Sophie,” Lorna whispered hoarsely, “…’tis happened. Garrick has died.”
“When?” Sophie breathed, clinging to the door for support.
“Early this morning. The funeral’s to be a grand affair at Westminster Abbey on February first. Sheridan’s taken charge.”
But Sophie was hardly listening. She turned and slumped against Aunt Harriet’s trunk at the bottom of her rumpled bedstead. Garrick
gone?
All night long, as she tossed in her bed, she had been acutely aware that the end would come soon. Now that it had, the loss was devastating nonetheless.
“And I’m afraid I have more bad news,” Lorna said with trepidation. “There are rumors everywhere that an arrest warrant for libel has been issued for the author of
School for Fools.”
“Why?”
Sophie gasped, sensing that storm clouds were gathering on every front.
“No one knows for certain,” Lorna said, closing the door behind her. “Sheridan’s already notified the Lord Chamberlain’s office he will not present the play again. Drury Lane will be closed tonight in honor of Garrick’s passing, so that should save him a fine. But Sophie,” Lorna added slowly, “gossips are saying ’tis Dr. Monro of Bedlam who claims to have been libeled by your play.”
Sophie paced the gloomy chamber. “If Capell cannot legally threaten me beyond ordering cuts on a play he unwittingly approved, perhaps Monro
can?
Is that it?”
Lorna nodded sympathetically. “If somehow Capell learned of your identity and passed that information on to Dr. Monro… both men would have their satisfaction.”
Suddenly, another sharp knock at Sophie’s door rent the air. Both women froze. Then, with lightning speed, Sophie scrambled inside Aunt Harriett’s trunk and pulled down the lid.
“Where is Sophie?” Mrs. Phillips demanded as soon as Lorna had cracked open the door. “Bob Derry tells me someone was asking questions about her at his Cider House late last night… wanting to know if Miss McGann still dwelled next to the Green Canister. What’s ado? She’s not in trouble, is she? The poor lass has had more than her share of woes, I’ll be bound.”
“Aye, Mrs. Phillips,” Sophie said, poking her head out of the trunk. “I
am
in a bit of a fix.”
“God’s eyeballs, lass!” Mrs. Phillips exclaimed. “Whatever are you crouched in there for?”
“There may be a libel warrant issued for my arrest. We hear the director of Bedlam’s displeased with
School for Fools
and there are rumors circulating that I wrote as Sydney Ganwick.”