Wicked Company (75 page)
Sophie glanced desperately up and down the road. A few men lounging in front of the Cider House across from the Green Canister seemed unlikely to come to her aid.
“I owe you
nothing!”
she hissed. “You lied and cheated and stole from me since the day I met you. And you
killed
our daughter with your reckless behavior!”
With all her might she jerked her hand from Peter’s grasp, propelling him against the building. Then, she swung the leather-bound manuscript by Aphra Behn at her estranged husband’s midsection with all the force at her command.
Peter folded like a paper fan. His limp body slid down the side of the Green Canister until he landed in a sitting position in the road. She had succeeded in knocking the wind out of him. Lest he should try to retaliate, she spun on her heel and fled up the stairwell to her lodgings, sliding the rusty bolt securely across the door for added protection.
Gasping for breath, she stared down at the precious, antique manuscript in Aphra Behn’s own hand, deeply grateful she hadn’t harmed it or its leather casings while employing it as a veritable bludgeon to protect herself from Peter’s perfidy.
Twenty-Nine
The latch protecting Sophie’s lodgings remained firmly bolted during the summer, as much to shut out any distractions as to guard against unwelcome intruders like Peter Lindsay.
On warm days when she arose, Sophie donned a light cotton shift and remained at her desk for hours at a time in a marathon attempt to complete her commissioned adaptation of Aphra Behn’s
Forced Marriage
as speedily as possible. She found the long hours of concentrated effort helped numb the painful truth that Hunter continued to believe the worst of her.
Outside her small window, the darkened city was utterly quiet. Sophie pulled open her desk drawer and withdrew the letter she had received that day from Lorna.
Our owner, Tho. Rosoman, has seen fit to engage as music and dance master at Sadler’s Wells, the very one spurned by Colman. I thought, at first, to spare you knowledge H. had fled the town without a word to you, but ’tis my belief you’d want to know he is not far off.
I volunteered that you are well and toiling over yet another playscript following in the wake of your successful
Bogus Baronet
. He feigned indifference in a most unconvincing manner. ’Tis my hope, my dear friend, that the two of you will show some gesture of goodwill and soon remedy this senseless discord…
Sophie heaved a tired sigh as she replaced Lorna’s letter in a drawer. She straightened the growing pile of papers that constituted the new manuscript and crawled into her bed, too exhausted to debate what she should or should not have said to Hunter during their last encounter in front of the King’s Opera.
***
By the end of the month, Sophie sent word to Garrick, who was vacationing at Hampton House, that she had completed her version of Behn’s play and had retitled it
A Maid Most Modestly Made.
The reply from his Thames estate upriver from London urged her to bring the work to his country house the following Sunday. He also informed her that Roderick Darnly would be among the invited guests and that he had offered to transport her and several other friends to their destination aboard his private barge.
Reasoning that Garrick was making every effort to maintain a show of cordial relations with Lacy’s lender, Sophie arrived dockside at the appointed hour and boarded Roderick’s boat for the leisurely trip on the tide.
“Ah… Sophie… welcome,” Lord Darnly greeted her as she stepped on deck. “I see at last you’ve emerged from your warren. Let’s find you a comfortable seat,”
The finely appointed barge sat low in the water on this sunny July day and provided bench seating for the guests gathering on deck for the short trip. Roderick cast a glance at the leather-bound manuscript by Aphra Behn that Sophie was returning to Garrick’s library, along with her own version of the play tied with a thin silk ribbon.
“May I give these to my footman?” he inquired, extending his lace-cuffed arm.
“Please, no, no thank you,” she replied, clasping both scripts more tightly in her hands. Just then, she caught sight of a stooped-shoulder gentleman stepping aboard the barge.
“Ah… Capell, my good man,” Lord Darnly exclaimed, extending his hand to assist the deputy examiner of plays. “Delighted you could join us.” He graciously conducted another round of introductions among the guests on board. “And, of course, by now, you are acquainted with our young scribe, Sophie McGann.”
“I am,” Capell said sourly.
“Ah… well… yes,” Lord Darnly said with wry amusement. “May I provide you with some small libation?”
“Have you milk?” Capell demanded, confirming Sophie’s suspicion that the man clung to his aversion toward any food or drink that wasn’t white colored.
“Milk?” Lord Darnly repeated, his lips twitching slightly. “I fear not, sir, would champagne suffice? ’Tis of an ivory hue?”
Capell nodded, but Sophie noticed he touched nary a drop as the liveried servants began poling their way to Hampton House.
“So, you have completed your commission for our august manager, I see,” Roderick commented quietly, taking a cushioned seat next to Sophie. “But what of my request? Have you commenced work on the comedy of which we spoke?”
Discomforted, Sophie squinted into the bright sunlight and fixed her gaze at the rolling downs sloping toward the river. Then she faced her inquisitor.
“To be quite honest with you, Roderick, I’ve only just finished this piece for our host this day. I plan to begin the play we spoke of immediately.”
“Why, that is indeed good news,” he replied pleasantly. “Pray divulge, at least, the subject you intend to take up.”
Sophie swallowed and shifted her glance once again to the sloping fields on the opposite side of the river. A horseman was nearing a copse of larches. He and his steed plunged into the wood, trailed by his pack of excited barking dogs. Absently, she wondered if the foxes were likewise preparing themselves for the approaching hunting season.
“Ah… my idea for this farce…” she temporized. Then she smiled, her eyes full of mischief at her sudden inspiration. “The exotic South American settings sometimes employed by Aphra Behn put me to mind of the Amazon. I’ve read her novel
Oroonoko
—”
“Do you not think the subject of slavery offers little in the way of mirth?” he asked blandly.
Sophie laughed and replied,
“My
notion is to create a magical jungle kingdom where the beasts gain the upper hand over the hunters.”
If Roderick didn’t appreciate her sense of humor, she thought, he could simply cancel his request that she write something for him.
“Hmmm… perhaps ’tis an interesting notion,” he said. He rested his manicured hands on his brocaded breeches and looked at her intently. “Since it will be rather taxing for you to produce the piece in such short order, perhaps you would like to avail yourself of the suite of rooms I’ve prepared for your use. I’ll have my staff look after your daily needs so you’ll have nothing to concern yourself with—except your writing.”
As always, Roderick’s manner was cool and correct, yet Sophie felt a disconcerting intensity lurking beneath the surface of his ostensibly generous invitation. Having unwittingly been privy, while in Wales, to Darnly’s disturbing personal secrets—in addition to having witnessed the sinister ritual performed in the beech grove on his property—she wondered if there weren’t even darker disclosures about which she preferred to remain innocent.
And besides, even if the viscount’s motives toward her were merely prompted by the altruism of a genuine patron of the arts, such a move on her part would only confirm Hunter’s worst suspicions. She couldn’t for the life of her think of a graceful way to decline his request to write the play, but she was certain about one thing: she had absolutely no intention of taking up residence on St. James’s Street.
“You’re terribly kind,” she replied with as much aplomb as she could muster, “but since my work on the Behn play went so well, I’d feel more comfortable continuing to write in my own flat. Need I say I very much appreciate your thoughtfulness,” she added, summoning a smile to her lips.
Roderick’s gaze narrowed slightly, but the viscount made no further attempt at persuasion.
“Whatever you deem best, Sophie, my dear,” he replied calmly. “Shall we say you’ll show me something in a fortnight?” Sophie suppressed a weary sigh and nodded her agreement.
“I’ll do my very best,” she said with forced cheerfulness.
“You always do,” he replied. “Ah… here’s the landing to Hampton House. We have arrived.”
***
Sophie was amazed when David Garrick, after warmly greeting his guests, immediately relieved her of her manuscript and retired to his library while the rest of the company toured the grounds.
“Sophie, you must see our orangery,” Eva-Maria Garrick declared in her endearing Viennese accent. “And we have just created a grotto… ’tis lovely and cool.”
Following their hostess, Sophie, Lord Darnly, Edward Capell, and company trooped back outdoors and were treated to a bracing constitutional, touring points of interest on the riverside estate, including a visit to the Garricks’ Temple of Shakespeare, a lovely Greek-style cupola with its own statue of the bard.
“Come, everyone… a buffet has been prepared,” Eva-Maria called to them gaily, and even the scaly-faced Edward Capell appeared cheered by the prospect of refreshments.
Sophie tried not to stare as the government censor loaded his plate with white bread and butter, a slice of pale brie served in honor of some guests visiting from France, plus a dollop of chicken breast. She waited shyly at the edge of the ravenous group until nearly everyone else had served themselves.
“Sophie, may I steal you away before you have your lunch?” David Garrick said, appearing suddenly at the threshold.
Sophie followed her host down a paneled passageway into his library, which was lined to the rafters with books.
“Now, my dear, please do have a seat,” he offered, taking a chair behind the desk opposite. He indicated her manuscript which lay open to its final page. “I couldn’t be more pleased,” he declared, watching with some amusement as a look of utter astonishment flickered across Sophie’s features. “It needs very little work. I think ’tis good you kept the setting in the French court and retained the dissension between the prince and the king’s favorite warrior over the heroine’s affections.” He nodded with a satisfied expression. “But I was glad to see the speeches more naturally phrased and fewer sword fights. I shall talk to Lacy about finding a place for it in this season’s schedule.”
“’Tis acceptable, then?” she said, delighted and amazed.
“’Tis more than acceptable… ’tis a marvelous reworking of old Aphra’s tale.” Garrick frowned suddenly. “Of course, we shall have to persuade our friend Capell to grant it license… but I’ll do my best to see it mounted this season.”
Feeling elated, Sophie followed her host out of the library and along a corridor that led to the dining salon where she obtained a plate of food. Then, unobtrusively, she made her way to a sun-filled terrace, perching happily near an open window where she was soon able to overhear Garrick chatting inside with the ill-tempered censor, Capell.
“Edward, my good man,” Garrick said genially. “I thought to save my sending a messenger to your chambers regarding this new work we hope to mount early in the autumn. May I present it to you myself for your swift perusal?” he added, all charm and good cheer.
Sophie thought she heard the rustle of pages being turned.
“An adaptation of a work by that Behn creature… mmm… I see,” Capell said obliquely.
“A Maid Most Modestly Made,
is it? Don’t much like the title, I can tell you that.”
“That certainly presents no problem,” Garrick hastened to assure him. “’Tis a trifle to change a title.”
Sophie then heard Lord Darnly join the conversation.
“’Tis admirable of you, Garrick, to show such confidence, assigning a complex subject like marriage contracts to a young and relatively inexperienced female scribe. A new view of the topic, perhaps?”
Sophie grimaced at hearing Darnly’s back-handed compliment, which she feared would only serve to arouse Capell’s antipathy. Was Roderick fanning the flames of Capell’s prejudice against women writers in hopes that her play for Garrick might be refused a government license? That would certainly serve to free up her time to pursue the frothy comedy he wished her to write. Or was this merely his form of retribution for her having recently spurned his offer of hospitality? Sophie had begun to fear that this supposed patron of the arts was becoming increasingly possessive of her play-writing skills—or was it her person? After all, the housemaid Glynnis took part in his foul frivolities, she recalled with a shudder.
“Miss McGann’s talent and sensibility make her eminently suited to this task, I believe,” Sophie heard Garrick reply calmly.
“She may well know how to hold a pen and make scratches with it,” Capell remarked rancorously, “but she has failed to learn the proper decorum for a member of her sex. I have heard the woman shamelessly deserted her husband.”
