Wicked Company (18 page)

“There was a full-fledged
riot
last night!” she announced, whipping off her cloak with a dramatic flourish and tossing it on a chair nearby. “That rabble-rouser, Thaddeus Fitzpatrick, was spoiling for a fight. You know that Garrick’s decreed they’ll no longer give half-price reductions in tickets to people who come into the theater after the third act.” Lorna scowled. “You can imagine what it’s like for the actors, when those rowdy young bucks arrive late…but they
like
disrupting things, and they want their amusements cheap!”

“Fitzpatrick…is he a theater critic?” Sophie asked, handing her new friend a mug of freshly made hot chocolate from a pot kept warm near the hearth.

“A self-appointed one,” Lorna declared with disgust. “Yesterday, he all but called for a riot, and then persuaded some fifty young rogues to wreak havoc on the poor theater, soon as the curtain parted. His confederates even produced axes from beneath their coats and began to chop up the benches!”

“No!” Sophie responded, horrified.

“One ruffian actually climbed on stage and nearly set fire to the velvet drapes that frame the proscenium arch!”

“You can’t be serious!” Sophie exclaimed. “Where was David Garrick?”

Lorna took a long sip of chocolate and shook her head. As she spoke, the fear she had felt the previous evening played across her features.

“At the height of the din, Garrick suddenly appeared from the wings and raised his hands for quiet, attempting to speak—but the blackguards howled him down!”

“Not allow
Garrick
to speak?” Sophie cried.

Lorna nodded.

“Fitzpatrick had the temerity to demand that Garrick go down on his knees and
apologize
to the rabble for the new ticket policy, but he utterly refused and declared ’twas folly to share company with such scum.”

“So, what’s to happen?” Sophie asked urgently.

“Garrick walked off stage, rang down the curtain, and declared the theater closed till further notice and the damages repaired.”

Sophie shook her head at such a tale and let out a long breath.

“Welcome to the world of London theater,” Lorna added ruefully, handing back to her friend a borrowed novel she had finished reading. “I owe you a night’s entertainment.”

***

A few days following the riot at Drury Lane, Sophie was pleased to receive a note from Jamie Boswell that proved he bore her no ill will.

29 January 1763

Though I fear I am still somewhat indisposed, I have informed Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Sheridan of your presence in London and they bid you to call at Number Twenty-four, Henrietta Street on Sunday next at noon when they will be at home.

Your most obedient servant, Jas. Boswell

“Bless you, Bozzy!” Sophie said aloud, startling poor Aunt Harriet who sat in front of the small hearth, staring somberly into the flames. “I’ve been invited to the Sheridans’ tomorrow, Aunt—you know, the actor and his novelist wife? ’Tis just around the corner.”

“That’s lovely, dear,” Aunt Harriet replied faintly. This was not one of her good days, and indeed, the feverishness and the throbbing in her joints were assaulting her with increasing frequency.

“Will you be all right here on your own?” Sophie asked anxiously.

Harriet merely nodded, retreating, as she did often these days, into a kind of dreamlike state in which she remained silent for hours at a time.

On Sunday, the bells of nearby St. Paul’s were calling actors and others to prayer. The columned house of worship down the block was not the domed cathedral of the same name, but a smaller edifice called “the Actors Church” because so many thespians attended it or were buried there. Its ringing bells, however, merely suggested to Sophie it was time to depart for the Sheridan’s. Aunt Harriet remained in her odd, lethargic state, but dutifully spooned down a bowl of broth. Sophie settled her into her chair with a rug wrapped around her knees. Then she smoothed her own faded skirt and searched for a shawl that had the fewest moth holes. Securing the door, Sophie practically danced down the steep narrow stairs into the street, anxious to escape the gloom permeating her upstairs lodgings.

***

“Come in, come in,” Thomas Sheridan greeted her warmly, ushering Sophie into a small, rather shabby sitting room crowded with guests.

“Frances, my dear,” he said to his wife, a plain-featured woman with warm gray eyes. “Here is the Scottish lass I told you about… the young miss is Boswell’s friend. ’Twas she who printed that excellent poster touting my elocution lectures in Edinburgh.”

Frances Sheridan rose from a chair, begging pardon of none other than the famous David Garrick himself. The actor-manager was flanked by a pretty woman Sophie took to be Mrs. Garrick, who had cooked breakfast for Jamie on his previous visit. Frances Sheridan’s expressive eyes registered surprise at Sophie’s youthful appearance but she immediately flashed her a warm smile of welcome. The novelist was at least a head taller than Sophie and appeared to be about forty years old.

“So kind of you to come,” she said, extending her hand. “Thomas showed me that placard you printed for him. ’Twas excellently done and certainly drew in patrons, I’m told.”

“His lectures were magnificent, Mrs. Sheridan…
inspiring!”
Sophie replied earnestly, and then promptly blushed.

“Tell me true, Miss Sophie,” Thomas Sheridan queried teasingly. “I never saw your father use that ticket I gave you. I wagered to Frances that you somehow managed to attend those lectures yourself.
Incognito,
was it?”

“I-I borrowed my father’s breeches,” Sophie admitted.

“I thought so!” Sheridan laughed.

“I so love to read,” she explained eagerly. “I adore books and language and—” She ceased her torrent of words and stared at them both for a moment. “It just seemed so
unfair
that I should not be allowed to attend, merely because I am female!”

The Sheridans exchanged glances and laughed heartily.

“Sounds a bit like
you,
Frances, when you were young.”

“It does, indeed,” Mrs. Sheridan acknowledged, smiling. “Come, my dear, you must meet Mr. and Mrs. Garrick… we’ve been consulting with them about my forthcoming play. ’Tis just been granted a license by Edward Capell, that knave in the Lord Chamberlain’s office, and we’re celebrating.”

“Now, Frances,” Sheridan reproved teasingly. “’Tis not politic to let people hear of your disdain for the king’s servant.”

“King’s servant!” Frances Sheridan scoffed. “’Twas a miracle Davy got that wretched man to grant a license for any play by a ‘petticoat author,’ as he calls us.”

“You’re having
your own play
presented at Drury Lane?” Sophie asked, awed. “I thought your novel wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Sheridan beamed. “’Tis my first play, but then, Mr. Garrick has taken several women scribes under his wing, haven’t you, sir?” she added before quickly making introductions.

“Some excellent ones, I’m proud to say,” David Garrick answered genially. “Kitty Clive… Mavis Piggott… and now you, my dear Frances. We’ve many nights of repertory to fill in a season. We always need a good new play, and I don’t care who writes it.”

Sophie surveyed the Garricks admiringly, although she was quite surprised to see how diminutive a man he was—barely four inches above five feet, she wagered. Both husband and wife were elegantly dressed—he in a midnight blue velvet coat and cream knee breeches and she in a gown of pale peach moiré with an underskirt a shade darker. Garrick looked to be about forty-five, his wife perhaps five years younger.

“I’m pleased to hear Drury Lane will be ready for your play, Mrs. Sheridan,” Sophie commented to her hostess. “It suffered less damage than Covent Garden, I gather.” Thaddeus Fitzpatrick had led a second disturbance that same week, this time leaving Garrick’s rival theater in shambles.

“The riot at old Drury was expensive enough, I assure you,” Garrick volunteered, eyeing Sophie curiously. “My partner, Mr. Lacy, has plenty to say to me on
that
score, and frankly, one can hardly blame him. ’Tis outrageous that Fitzpatrick and his mob aren’t cast into prison for such wanton behavior!”

Garrick’s rich, resonant voice, laced with indignation, utterly dominated his surroundings.

“My friend Lorna Blount told me of the fracas,” Sophie disclosed. “Those wastrels were disgraceful! I understand that you, Mr. Garrick, sir, were magnificent putting that scoundrel Fitzpatrick in his place!”

“Thank you, my dear, but I fear my temper got the better of me that night. Those ruffians could have burned us to the ground,” he said disgustedly. “Fortunately, I know when ’tis time to make an exit!”

“Who would believe acting could be such a dangerous profession?” Mrs. Garrick said, and Sophie heard the accent of Vienna in her English. “I fear for poor David’s life at times,” she added, clutching her husband’s arm.

Lorna had told Sophie that the Garricks had married more than a decade earlier, at a time when they were two of the most popular performers on the London stage, he, a rising young actor at Drury Lane, and she, the principal dancer at the opera house.

“And now,” Garrick said to Mrs. Sheridan, abruptly changing the subject, “we must finally decide what to do about the role Mr. Love was to have taken in this play of yours.”

“Sadly, the man is quite indisposed,” Mrs. Sheridan confided to Sophie. “He believes he won’t recover by the time
The Discovery
has its debut next week.”

Garrick turned to Thomas Sheridan with a determined look.

“Sherry, my friend… please consider what I’ve proposed. ’Tis my belief that your charming wife had you in mind when she wrote the role of Lord Medway. Say you’ll rescue us and play the scamp.”

Sophie noticed that Sheridan’s features were slightly flushed, as if he were upset but was attempting to disguise his pique.

“Second choice in a pinch, am I?” he said with a thin smile.

Sophie was beginning to see that theater folk were a sensitive breed and prone to petty jealousies, even among friends.

“Oh, darling,” Frances said in a rush. “’Tis just that Davy has the Loves under contract. He must use them or be accused by his partner of being profligate with their earnings. You’d otherwise be everyone’s first choice, don’t you see?”

Appearing somewhat mollified, Thomas Sheridan paused for effect and then nodded his acquiescence.

“Splendid!” declared Garrick. “Absolutely splendid! The part couldn’t be in better hands. Now, my next problem is to persuade that miserable printer I employ to run up some new playbills to post around the city announcing the change of cast. He threatened to quit after all the adjustments in scheduling I demanded of him following the riot. Quite a maddening, moody fellow, he is.”

Sophie felt her heart begin to race. She noticed Thomas Sheridan looking in her direction with amusement.

“I-I’m a printer, sir,” Sophie stammered. “I’m managing Ashby’s Books at present and we have a press. I’d be most happy to print your playbills for you. I often did that for the Canongate Playhouse in Edinburgh.”

Garrick looked at her with surprise that soon turned to skepticism.

“You’d better take her up on it, Davy,” Sheridan urged. “My elocution lectures in Edinburgh were sold out, thanks to Sophie.”

This news apparently did not sway the manager of Drury Lane, who remained silent.

“Frances…” Sheridan persisted, “do we still have that playbill this young miss concocted? Remember, I brought it back with me to show you the pleasing configuration of lettering.”

“Why yes, right here in this drawer, I believe,” she said, glancing sideways at Sophie conspiratorially while rustling through a nearby desk.

“You
did this… completely on your own?” Garrick asked intently, studying the creased placard held up for his inspection.

“Yes, sir,” she answered softly. “My father was a printer and bookseller in Edinburgh. He taught me the trade after my mother died.”

“And he’s with you here in London?”

“No… he… he passed away too, sir. Just last autumn. That’s why I’m living with my aunt, managing Ashby’s because she’s ill.”

Garrick looked at her with sudden sympathy. “I’d heard a young miss had quite transformed the place. But about the playbills…you say you could have them made and distributed in a day’s time, before
this
Thursday?”

“Aye, sir!” Sophie said swiftly, although it suddenly occurred to her that she had never printed a single sheet on the Ashby press, nor did she know if it was even in working order.

Garrick studied her a long moment, apparently considering his various options. Then he nodded.

“Right then. Let us work out together exactly what we want.” He glanced over at Mrs. Sheridan just as she was winking at Sophie. “Frances, my dear, pray lend us your quill. Have you a scrap of paper we can use to rough this out?”