Jack Absolute (34 page)

But Hamlet never played Philadelphia on a freezing November night!
Jack breathed out, saw his breath stream away above the candles on the forestage. He shivered, not just from the cold November
air, then turned his attention back to the one warm thing there. Before delivering the line, he had kissed his Lydia. And
Louisa was still in his arms.

Was it the kiss that had affected his delivery of the line? Three times they had played this scene, three times they had kissed;
and each time the kiss was different. The first, on the day after their reunion at Alphonse’s, had been passionate – at least
on his behalf. She had broken it off quickly, embarrassed before the other actors it seemed. With the second kiss, two days
later, she was the one with the passion, he who felt strained.

And this third? He looked at Louisa now as she rose up in his arms, drawing breath for her next line. Yes, it was indeed why
he had said the line so poorly.

For this third kiss was cold. Functional. For the stage alone.

‘Now could I fly with him to the Antipodes! But my persecution is not yet come to a crisis!’ Louisa declaimed, a hand to her
brow in the approved style. The other actors, playing his father and her aunt – a colonel of engineers and his wife, both
much given to over-egging the comic aspects of their roles – came on. The scene concluded and Jack was soon in the wings,
Louisa beside him though rapidly moving away to change her dress for the next scene, leaving Jack to reflect on the quality
of kisses.

Those three dissatisfying moments were the most intimate exchanges of his whole time in Philadelphia. Louisa’s coolness, which
he’d sensed almost from the moment of their reunion, had, to his confusion, persisted, grown, like the ever-heavier snowfalls
that covered the city each night. And the rehearsals were indeed the only time they seemed able to be together. Though these
only occupied a portion of each day, the rest of her hours were divided between caring for her ill mother – who she’d brought
down from New York and who was still sickly and house-bound – and the social swirl that was the city’s society. Balls, dinners,
recitals – Jack, resplendent in his new uniform, attended them too, knowing that somewhere among the elite crowd might also
be his quarry, Diomedes, or another who would lead Jack to him, and perhaps also to Cato, Diomedes’s superior. He circled,
talked, questioned, his passion for vengeance undiminished since parting from his betrayed General. He had so far discovered
nothing but rumour. Yet, in the deepest part of his heart, he knew his motives were not pure, that there was another reason
he attended these functions – to see Louisa.
This was not HMS
Ariadne
, with people always a thin plank away. This was a city; and the mansions, where the balls were held, had many rooms. Surely,
he’d reasoned, it would be possible to steal Louisa away to one of them, to be alone, to talk, at the very least? In the forest
they had seemed to share every thought in the long evenings lit by the campfire’s light. He missed that intimacy, especially
in its contrast to their conversations in Philadelphia, limited, as they were, to Sheridan’s on-stage exchanges and snatched
whispers in the wings. At the balls and gatherings, he’d watch her, wait for an opportunity. But she was never alone, being
either with the two Peggys, or at the centre of a circle of admiring young officers; conspicuous among whom, for both his
looks and his captivating ways, was John André.

Each night Jack would return to his lodgings alone and brood on the changes in her. Was it possible that the feelings she’d
had for him, so strong in the forest, had dissipated during their brief separation? And had those affections transferred so
swiftly to another?

Jack peered now around the proscenium arch into the darkened auditorium. Their director was out there, and with a little time
before his next entrance, he decided to visit him. André was the other reason he’d agreed to play himself in
The Rivals.
Who better to glean information from, as to spy rings and double agents in Philadelphia, than Howe’s intelligence?

He’d even thought he might confide in André. Caution had held him back; for it was possible that Diomedes lurked undetected
at the heart of Howe’s command as he had at the heart of Burgoyne’s and Jack did not want another officer scaring him off.
Also, conversations with the younger man did nothing to make Jack want to take him into his confidence.

In a week of hints and gentle probing, Jack had confirmed
little other than, yes, there were undoubtedly spies in Philadelphia and, yes, once the play was up, the Major would devote
himself completely to hunting them down. Indeed, André, in his casualness, was quite unlike any other intelligence officer
Jack had met. With almost daily Rebel raids on the city, with English patrols being ambushed as if news of their coming had
been sent ahead, there should have been plenty to concern and occupy André. But he seemed to wish only to talk of London theatre,
his obsession, and Jack’s friendship with the admired Sheridan. The war, their similar roles in it, seemed to interest the
younger man hardly at all. The only other times the languid young man would animate was when he was addressing Louisa. Could
Jack be the only one who noticed how André’s eyes glinted when he regarded her, how his attention pulled his whole body towards
her when they talked?

Jack made his way into the auditorium. His rival was near the back, his sketching pad as ever beside him, though now it was
filling with notes to himself and the players. Jack, with a nervous glance at the scribbles – he had no doubt that some of
the criticisms would be aimed at him – sat beside him and watched the next scene. Quite soon, it reached the point where the
stage Irishman, Sir Lucius O’Trigger, was due to make his entrance. As usual, he didn’t.

‘Henry,’ André called to the Colonel, ‘read in for him, will you, so the others can say their lines?’ As an appallingly faked
Irish accent came down from the stage, André turned to Jack, saw his expression. ‘I know, dear fellow. But he will be here.’

‘When?’ The actor personifying Sir Lucius had suddenly decided, after only one rehearsal, that he did not want to be a player.
But instead of recasting, André had learned that an officer who had only just played the part in New York (‘Alas, Jack,’ André
had said, ‘it appears that ours is not to be the premiere performance in this land’) was bound for
Philadelphia. Each day he was promised, each day he failed to arrive.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘On the night we open?’

‘Jack, rest easy. He knows the lines. I can take him through the blocking in an hour.’

‘And the duel?’ The characters, Jack and Sir Lucius, were meant to cross swords over Lydia. Despite his dislike of most aspects
of playing, Jack had been almost looking forward to a spirited stage duel – even if, with his injury, he would have to fight
left-handed. Most theatrical fights were dreadful – if he had to sit through one more Mercutio and Tybalt limp-wristedly flailing
at each other! So he’d carefully worked out a few ideas.

‘Sorry, Jack. I know your hopes but we’ll just have to do it as play-scripted. You cross blades only and then the rest will
rush on and separate you.’

Disappointed, Jack rose and walked back to the stage. His next entrance was coming up.
Why did I let myself be talked into this
?
he thought, mentally giving himself a good kick in the rear.
Why
?
And then he saw the ultimate ‘why’, standing in the wings, leaning on a pedestal, wearing her change of dress. This one was
cut especially low and, even though it was just the rehearsal, she had used some powders there, highlighted and shaded, though
her charms had no need of enchancement. Whose benefit was that for, he wondered. She was leaning forward slightly, those eyes
alive with mockery at some compliment the very young Ensign, Anton Hervey, who played Acres, was obviously paying her.

The Ensign left her for his scene. Jack moved behind Louisa. Her face was to the stage and she did not hear him come.

‘Can we meet tonight?’ he whispered.

‘Oh, Jack!’ She turned, startled. ‘What did you say?’

He kept his voice low. ‘Tonight, Louisa. Come to my house. The other officers are on patrol. We …’

He hesitated. She flushed. ‘Oh, Jack. You know how I would love to. But John has called an extra rehearsal at his lodgings,
for myself and Julia.’ She pointed at Peggy Chew, mouthing lines in the wings opposite. ‘And then he will give us a late supper.’
She looked away, then back to add, ‘You could join us?’

She had splayed her fan, fluttered it now before her face. Was it that prop that gave something of the stage to the invitation?
Was there not something more than half-hearted about it? He felt heat now, at last, rising in his face. ‘I would not wish
to intrude, madam,’ he said, bowing slightly, though to her back, as she was already making her next entrance.

He had attended one such supper before. But the two Pegs, André, some of his brother officers … they were all so damnably
young! The men had barely seen combat, the girls – they were little more than that – had been raised in a restricted, harmless
society. He enjoyed company, was considered a spirited companion; he could carouse with the best. But with his splinted hand
and his fever pallor, his recent experiences still haunting his face … he felt like a gnarled old wolfhound allowed to lie
before the fire with tumbling puppies. He’d said little, drank too much … especially when he’d again noted the exchanges between
Louisa and John André. Of course she flirted, it was society’s way and indiscriminate; yet for the handsome Major she seemed
to reserve a special attention, a lingering of eyes.

He watched her from the wings, his heart quickening, driving heat again into his face. Again, he thought back to the forest,
their time there, curling around her each night, bound by the word he’d given to her father. And another word came to him,
the one she’d called him then.

‘Fool,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody fool!’

Rehearsal over, comments on their performances given, the cast dispersed.

He had no further conversation with Louisa, no desire to. He watched her helped into a cloak, spread over the last dress she’d
worn on stage, the low-cut one. Obviously what enticed in the theatre would do so equally over supper.

Jack left, saying goodbye to no one. Once outside, he was somewhat at a loss so he tucked himself into a doorway opposite
the playhouse to consider his options. Snow was falling again, adding to the prodigious quantities that had already transformed
the city into a slippery, muffled cocoon. A bitter wind came with it, so that the snow fell slantways, driving into the very
few people who struggled through the streets. Shrugging deeper into his greatcoat, pulling down his tricorn hat, Jack wondered
where to seek shelter. There was always the Mess of the 16
^th
. Jack had already passed several pleasant nights there, taking comfort in the simple conversation of fellow soldiers, men
he’d known in that other life, those other wars. There was good food, plenty of grog … and not a mention of which greasepaint
provided the greatest effect, or the absurd inflexions of a fellow performer. Suddenly it seemed a very good place to be and
Jack was just about to forsake his paltry shelter when the playhouse door opposite swung open and Anton Hervey, Peggy Chew,
John André, and Louisa Reardon stepped out. Without even considering it, Jack let them get fifty yards ahead then began to
follow.

He had stalked many people down numerous city streets and he knew how to remain unnoticed, but in this case there was little
need for caution, his quarry quite absorbed in their own, high-spirited company. He followed them down the main thoroughfare,
then through some winding back streets. They were undoubtedly heading toward the Major’s lod-
gings. It was in a less favoured area than Jack’s, for André, though of good enough society, did not possess Jack’s sudden
wealth. He shared a sprawl of rooms above a baker’s with six other officers from his regiment; the heat from the ovens below
kept them snug, he said.

They were soon there and the party went up immediately. Opposite the house, noise and smoke leaked from the half-open door
of a tavern. There was a grimy, lead-framed bow window that gave on to the street. Considering that he may as well be warm
and liquored while he waited and watched, he entered.

It was a soldier’s place, not an officer’s, but the inhabitants were too far into the evening to give his well-cut clothes
much notice. Their attention was largely focused on a civilian fiddle player in the corner, who sawed and bowed with vigour
and some skill, his efforts luring several couples to the jig. Fetching himself a large mug of heated rum, Jack pushed to
the window. The corner seat was taken by a corporal from a Highland regiment, who balanced a tough-looking, pock-marked, ‘lady
of the town’ upon his bare knee. When Jack opened his coat enough to reveal the officer’s gorget at his neck, she looked as
if she would argue, but the Scotsman dragged her off by the hand, saying, ‘Dinna fash, limmer. Awa to dance!’ A little smile
came as Jack thought on Angus MacTavish and his unintelligible ways. Then he rubbed a patch of the window clean, loosened
his coat, and settled to his vigil.

An hour passed, people came into the house opposite but none left. Jack finished the rum and, despite a sudden desire to get
drunk, now ordered a pint of beer from a serving girl. She appeared to want more than the four pence he slipped her and she
was comely enough beneath her grubby face and patched clothes. But Jack had thoughts for only one woman that night. He would
wait and watch for her.

And then?
He had not thought it through. When he saw her, perhaps he’d know.

He was halfway down his second, somewhat sour pint –
Did no one in this damned land know how to brew a decent ale? –
when she appeared, just as the bell in the nearby church tolled midnight. Anton Hervey was with her, cloaked against the
weather. André was merely in his shirt and waistcoat, shivering while he made his farewells from the doorway.