Wicked Company (85 page)

“Except for Hunter and Mr. G., my darling Bozzy, you’re the dearest man in Christendom!”

Her composure once again restored, she calmly proposed they celebrate Boswell’s return to London by attending a performance of Oliver Goldsmith’s wildly popular
She Stoops to Conquer.

“I’ve heard there’s not a ticket to be had in the kingdom,” Boswell warned her.

Sophie reached in her pocket and withdrew Garrick’s metal manager’s token.

“Ah… but I’ve friends in high places,” she teased. “We’ll use Mr. G.’s courtesy coin and sit in the best box in Covent Garden tonight!”

***

By the end of 1773, Sophie had written a five-act farce she titled
The Rattecatchers,
about a group of reckless London bucks who form a drinking, dining, and wenching society and are subsequently conspired against by a coterie of
fernmes,
one of whom infiltrates their club dressed as a man.

“’Tis brilliant! Your best work to date!” Garrick enthused. “Although you’ll have to rework that bit where the rakes sup at their private club. Tone down the raspberry tart-slinging scene… you know how Capell despises colorful food.”

“I’ll make it rice pudding,” Sophie said, deadpan.

As he handed her the manuscript across his desk, Sophie nearly gasped. Gout had almost crippled the poor man’s fingers, twisting them nearly into claws. Throughout the year, his health had been deteriorating alarmingly. Clearly, he had aged far beyond his fifty-six years.

“Well then, shall we aim to see your play mounted before season’s end?” Garrick said, grimacing as he shifted in his chair. It was a miracle that the ailing actor was still able to perform on stage, Sophie thought sadly. However, when he appeared before an audience, she marveled at how his infirmities seemed to disappear, and his voice and presence were as compelling as ever. But gazing at him now, Sophie concluded that Garrick couldn’t continue much longer with the double burdens of managing the playhouse and playing the taxing roles of Lear, Richard III, and Hamlet during a typical month.

“And are you coping with the playbills and such?” Garrick asked gently, shaking her from her reverie. “Making enough, are you, to keep little Rory in chops and biscuits?”

Sophie’s gaze shifted to the manuscript she held in her hand. She would, indeed,
just
make ends meet if Sydney Ganwick’s
The Rattecatchers
survived Edward Capell’s censorious pen and
if
the comedy reached the stage before the end of the 1773–1774 season.

“I believe I will, sir,” she replied. “I do so appreciate the print work you’ve given me.”

“I know, my dear,” he said wearily. “Friendships like ours prosper because they’ve been good for both of us.”

“Like your partnership with Mr. Lacy,” Sophie ventured.

Garrick looked at her strangely.

“Not quite like that, but I take your meaning,” was all he would say on the subject.

When Sophie later reflected on that brief conversation, she concluded that Garrick may have known something of his cantankerous partner’s final illness. On January 21 of the new year, 1774, James Lacy died in his sleep, bequeathing his share in Drury Lane’s Royal Patent to his feckless son, Willoughby.

By February, everyone around the Covent Garden district had heard that the fabulously wealthy nobleman with an abiding interest in London’s theatrical life, the Right Honorable Lord Roderick Darnly, Earl of Llewelyn, had decamped from his sizable estates in Wales and taken up residence again at his elegant town house at Number 10, St. James’s Street.

What these changes would portend for the theater folk at Drury Lane—and for the dramatist Sydney Ganwick—was anybody’s wager.

***

Sophie was not particularly surprised to see a crush of visitors milling about the stage door a quarter of an hour before
King Lear
was scheduled to unfold one fine May evening. In the months since James Lacy’s death, theatergoers and players alike seemed to sense that an era in theatrical history was slipping away each time the ailing David Garrick appeared in one of Shakespeare’s titanic roles.

Throughout the spring of 1774, Garrick soldiered on, despite a lingering cold, a bilious stomach, and the trials of having a new partner, the slow-witted Willoughby Lacy. Even the unexpected death in April of his friend, the brilliant playwright Oliver Goldsmith, from a sudden fever, didn’t keep Garrick from meeting his obligations to his players and his public—although Sophie could see that Goldsmith’s loss had been a shocking blow.

“What a tragic waste,” Garrick said to Sophie sorrowfully during one of their private conferences in his Drury Lane chambers, “that he should die at a mere forty-six years old.” In the next breath he had given her the unwelcome news on her play.
The Rattecatchers
could not be mounted until the 1774–1775 season, commencing the following September.

“Unfortunately, Lacy left debts from trying unsuccessfully to mine coal on his property in Isleworth.”

“What does that mean for his half of the Patent?” Sophie asked, alarmed.

“He has mortgaged more of his shares than I would like,” replied Garrick. “Young Willoughby struggles with many… ah… impediments, and I worry he may not be quite up to fending off predators. Meanwhile, our playhouse must trim its expenses. As far as new plays are concerned, we shall be forced to stick with the old chestnuts for a time, to keep costs down. I am sorry to have to disappoint you, my dear. Eventually, we shall prevail.”

Recalling this rather ominous conversation, Sophie stood quietly in the wings as the stage servants put the final touches on the set for
King Lear.
Garrick emerged from his tiring-room costumed in a furred robe and flowing white wig. He wore severe makeup that aged his features to a degree almost too alarming to behold. The prompter, Mr. Hopkins, called for places.

“Hello, my dear Sophie,” a melodious voice said into her ear.

Startled, she turned to find the actress, Kitty Clive, who was now retired, standing by her side.

“Mrs. Clive!” Sophie exclaimed with pleasure. “How lovely to see you! You’ve come to London to see the
Lear?”

“But of course,” she nodded and then lowered her voice. “It may be his last season, you know…”

“Do you really think so?” Sophie asked, unsettled to hear so knowledgeable an insider echo the tittle-tattle repeated everywhere these days.

Kitty did not reply, but inclined her head in the direction of Garrick, who was accepting the subdued greetings of the three women who played his stage daughters, Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia. As was their habit, the actresses knelt ceremoniously to receive Garrick’s blessing. Sophie felt a lump rise to her throat as she noticed the painful swelling that disfigured the hand Garrick laid on their heads in benediction.

“The daughters he never had,” Kitty murmured in a low voice and then cocked her head to study Sophie closely. “You rather fit that role too,” she added softly. “He’s always been terribly fond of you, you know. Tell me, did you truly abandon writing?”

“I, ah…” Sophie temporized.

“That was a dreadfully rude question,” the actress blurted. “Disregard it entirely. Shall we take our seats ?”

Sophie had been invited by the Garricks to share their box. Eva-Maria sat regally in her customary chair, dressed in the height of fashion in a gown of gold tissue silk. Much to Sophie’s surprise, a dowdy woman in her late twenties occupied the seat next to her. Two other women of a similar age and description had tucked themselves into seats at the back of the box.

“May I present Miss Hannah More?” Eva-Maria said graciously, “and her two sisters—Sally and Patricia. This is Sophie McGann, a dear friend of ours.” The three guests nodded at Sophie. “The Miss Mores are from Bristol,” Eva-Maria said by way of introduction. “They’ve come to London for several months, and have taken a flat in Henrietta Street around the corner from our new house on Adelphi Terrace,” she added. “Hannah has written the most wonderful, complimentary letter about Davy’s performance in
Zara.
When it was forwarded to him by her friend Mr. Stonehouse, he insisted they should meet.”

“I was so embarrassed to learn Mr. Stonehouse had shown it to Mr. Garrick,” Hannah said breathlessly. “I, a fledgling dramatist, having my feeble words perused by a master of the quill!”

“You have written a play?”Sophie asked skeptically.

“A poor piece, surely.… I call it
Inflexible Captive,”
Hannah More said coyly. “Mr. Garrick has agreed to read it.… I have some faint hopes for it to be mounted in Bath.”

“I see…” Sophie murmured as the curtain in front of them opened and the tragedy of Lear and his daughters began to unfold.

King Lear
had been the fifth major tragic role Garrick had played in his first season as a professional actor thirty-four years earlier. He had become phenomenally successful as the cantankerous king who was spoiled by power, turned mad by exhaustion, and pierced to the heart by the ingratitude of his daughters. Sophie stared down at the proud, hard-bitten monarch storming around the stage. Gone was any trace of stiffness and pain. Garrick was full of fire and fury, then by turns, pathetic and weak.

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth

To have a thankless child…

Sophie’s thoughts drifted to Eva-Maria, sitting beside her, her eyes shining with pride. In truth, the Garricks had no thankless daughters, or sons, either. Their family had become the 130 people who comprised the company at Drury Lane. Their circle was ever enlarged by the inclusion of even such sycophantic hangers-on as this Hannah More, who had inveigled an introduction to the celebrated actor-manager through artful flattery and had immediately and generously been welcomed into his domain.

Sophie stole a sideways glance at Miss More and was struck by a quality of calculation barely disguised by her prim demeanor.

She has a plan…
and she is determined to execute it,
Sophie mused.

After the performance, close friends and acquaintances crowded into the Greenroom backstage. Hannah More rushed to Garrick’s side, full of praise and girlish delight at having sat in the manager’s box. Her sisters were likewise effusive with their accolades, and Sophie could see how it lifted the exhausted actor’s spirits to hear such fervent tributes paid to his art.

“Pray, what is the meaning of so many Miss Mores purring about Garrick with their plays and their pretty compliments?” Kitty Clive hissed within Sophie’s hearing. “He should send them back to Bristol with a flea in their ears!”

“You know the More sisters?” Sophie smiled to hear Kitty echo her own sentiments.

“I hear this Hannah creature had some small plays produced in private houses and now thinks her work ready for a grander stage. Clever of her to flatter a sick old man, don’t you think?”

“Oh, pray, don’t call Garrick old!” Sophie said ardently.

Kitty arched one eyebrow.

“You truly do love him, don’t you?”

“Love?” Sophie replied, startled by Kitty’s use of the word.

“Love,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “I’11 wager you are as close to a true and loving daughter as that jackanapes is ever likely to have… but I fear he
is
a bit vain and subject to flattery, especially from ladies such as the mincing Miss Mores. Ah, well,”—added the actress, who had had her share of friendly spats with her former employer over the years—“all these intrigues do not concern me a whit any longer—and that’s a blessing, to be sure. Adieu, Miss McGann… and God bless.”

And with that, the indomitable Kitty Clive departed for the peace and tranquility of Strawberry Hill, her place of retirement on Horace Walpole’s estate outside of London.

Mulling over the woman’s rather curious pronouncements, Sophie was oblivious to the crowds jostling her in the Greenroom. She was startled, therefore, when she felt a hand placed on her shoulder.

“I do believe you’ve been avoiding me,” Roderick Darnly said benignly. “Avoiding me for an age, in fact.” Sophie whirled around and stared at the Earl of Llewelyn, feeling suddenly at a loss for words. “I understand from young Will Lacy that despite the adoring Miss Mores, you still have Garrick’s approbation.”

“He has been kind enough this year to allow me the playbill printing concession again,” she replied stiffly.

“And you remain hardened against your muse?” he asked.

“I have shunned the quill a long while, now,” she lied, wondering how to make a graceful but immediate exit. “Also, my young son occupies a great deal of my time,” she added pointedly.

“Pity, that,” the earl commented. “And do you ever hear from… his father?”

“No,” she replied, meeting his gaze steadily as her heart thudded in her chest, “I do not. I haven’t seen, spoken to, or heard from him in ages. Now, if you will excuse me…” she murmured, grateful to make her escape.