Wicked Company (86 page)

Thirty-Three

N
OVEMBER 1774

Hunter Robertson, David Douglass, and John Henry—all of the American Company—disembarked at Boston Harbor with the captain of the
Rose
following a stomach-churning trip through choppy coastal waters along the eastern sea-coast. They had come north hoping they could somehow put together another acting company, despite the political storm brewing between England and the Colonies.

“Do you think the good citizens of this fair city plan to dump more tea into the Back Bay, Captain Ogilvie?” Hunter asked one of his four companions as they trudged up a dusty road in search of food and lodging.

“I’ve come to think that
any
Colonial is capable of such dastardly behavior!” the captain grumbled. “Shipping has become a dangerous game.”

Now that England had added still more import duties to its rolls, the Colonists had taken to calling the new laws passed by the British government The Intolerable Acts. As a result, there was no end of sabotage committed by the rebels these days, and few ships were crossing the Atlantic in either direction.

In view of Roderick Darnly’s long-standing threats to have Hunter arrested, and Peter Lindsay’s legitimate claim that Hunter had cuckolded him, the expatriate had no clear notion about the degree of danger facing him if he returned to London after four years in the Colonies. Up to now, he had reluctantly heeded Sophie’s warnings to remain in America, but with political unrest simmering everywhere, the theaters were virtually empty. Most ironic of all, this land of refuge was fast becoming a dangerous place for a transplanted Briton.

The foursome entered a tavern near the dock, only to learn from the pubmaster that the upstart Continental Congress had just passed a resolution suspending all public amusements.

“Well, that’s it then,” John Henry said sadly to his companions. “All the theaters will be officially closed.” He pulled a leather pouch from his coat and began to count out their money. “Well, Robertson,” he sighed, “this should just be enough to buy you your passage home—if you can secure one.”

But even if he decided to risk it, Hunter thought morosely, as he fingered his slim profits, it was now early November, a treacherous time to hazard a transatlantic journey. And from the looks of the deserted harbor, there might not be a single ship willing to ply an ocean full of marauding American privateers.

“I expect I’ll have to wait until spring, when the weather improves, and hope some daring English captain may be willing to hazard a trip. I wonder if the good congressmen include
juggling
in their list of public prohibitions during this time of civil strife?” Hunter speculated dryly. “’Tis about the only way I can imagine to keep myself from starving this winter.”

***

On a bone-chilling January afternoon, Sophie dashed for the door of
The Public Advertiser,
and once inside, was cheered by the sight of the fire glowing in the grate.

A handsome young man was conversing animatedly with the editor, Mr. Shaw, to whom Sophie regularly submitted the daily calendar of Drury Lane events.

“Yes, Mr. Sheridan,” the editor said wearily. “I’ve said I would publish your piece before your play opens on the seventeenth, and I shall do just that, if you would be so kind as to allow me to get on with my work and assist Miss McGann, here.” The brash young visitor sported wavy brown hair that was powdered in the current mode. He cast his gray-blue eyes in Sophie’s direction, watching her attentively as she handed Mr. Shaw the following day’s playbill. Sheridan’s curved and almost girlish mouth seemed instantly prepared to smile, as if such primed cheerfulness would somehow assist him in achieving his aims. His clothes were of the highest fashion, replete with lacy ruffles at collar and wrist.

“Sink me, if I shall be the cause of delaying this lovely miss even a moment longer!” the young man replied, gallantly. He eyed Sophie closely.

“Your name is Sheridan?” Sophie smiled, deflecting his inquisitive glance with a cool but friendly manner. The impudent dandy was at least five years younger than she. “Can you be related to Thomas Sheridan, the great lecturer on elocution?”

“My esteemed father,” the young man replied dryly, his ironic tone revealing that he esteemed his sire very little. “I am Richard Brinsley Sheridan… a playwright rather than player… with a comedy I believe will succeed wildly at Covent Garden!”

Sophie was brought up short by a fleeting memory of the rambunctious young Richard spiriting sweets from his mother’s tea table in the Sheridans’ sitting room years earlier in Bath.

“I knew your parents,” she said. “Your mother was quite a heroine of mine. I was so sorry to hear of her passing. What has it been… nearly ten years now?”

“Nearly that.”

“And pray, what is the name of your new play?” Sophie pressed, curious to know what this stylish young beau had concocted.

“’Tis called
The Rivals…
set in Bath, where I lived for quite some time. ’Twill open soon at Covent Garden. I hope you’ll do me the honor of attending it,” he added, pointing to the article he was submitting to the editor of
The Public Advertiser.
“This is
a bit of puffery about the work… written anonymously by
me,
of course!” He laughed.

Despite her intuition that Richard Brinsley Sheridan remained a bit of a scamp, Sophie couldn’t hide her smile. “You may count on my attendance, sir… and I wish you the best of Irish luck with it!”

However, when Sophie went to see
The Rivals
at Covent Garden with Lorna Blount, she was more outraged than impressed. The play had opened, as planned, on January 17—and had failed. Sophie had heard the author quickly withdrew the piece, rewrote it, and on this night, January 28, again laid it before a skeptical public.

This time, from the very first scene, the audience shouted with laughter, although Sophie could only sit in her seat and scowl.

“’Tis a
steal,
that’s what it is!” she whispered fiercely to Lorna during the interval.

“Of what?” Lorna asked, wide-eyed.

“Of his blooming
mother’s
play,
A Journey to Bath,
that’s what!” Sophie muttered. “I read the manuscript years ago… it had its problems, and Garrick ultimately rejected it for Drury Lane. But Frances Sheridan’s character, Mrs. Tyfort, is a matched double for this Mrs. Malaprop’s idiotic misstatements!”

“You jest!” Lorna gasped. “But still, you must admit, ’tis hilarious fun,” she smiled.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Sophie demanded peevishly. “He had a good first draft written by his mum… only he conveniently
forgot
to give her credit on the playbill!”

“No one but you will notice,” Lorna noted dryly.

One frosty February afternoon a few weeks later, Sophie received another shock. She mounted the steps to Number 5 Adelphi Terrace, the Garricks’ new residence near Covent Garden, and was soon shown into the charmingly decorated sitting room.

“Sophie!” Mrs. Garrick exclaimed, “I’m so glad you could join us. Davy and Miss More will be along from the library in just a moment.”

“Hannah More is in London again?” Sophie asked, startled.

“Ah… yes… she has beseeched Davy to help her with her tragedy. She asks so prettily, how can he refuse?” Mrs. Garrick laughed, offering Sophie a seat by the tea table. “I do think the poor girl finds Bristol—her home, you know —a bit dull,” she confided in the sympathetic tone of a protective parent.

Just then, the young woman in question appeared in the sitting room. David Garrick leaned on her arm as he gingerly walked on his gout-afflicted limbs.

“Sophie my dear… I’m so happy you could join us for tea with our Miss More, here,” he said, smiling in fatherly fashion at Hannah.

“Oh, pray, sir, have a care,” Hannah cautioned her host as she helped him into a blue upholstered wing-backed chair and then hastened to slip a footstool under his pain-racked ankles.

Sophie glanced appraisingly at the primly attired young woman whose thick eyebrows and small pursed lips gave her the demeanor, even when smiling, of the self-satisfied schoolmistress she once had been.

“Mrs. Garrick was just telling me of your feverish efforts,” Sophie said, attempting to project a graciousness she hardly felt.
“Inflexible Captive…
is it?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could. “Will it be mounted at Drury Lane this season?”

Meanwhile, Sophie wondered with rising annoyance if her own neglected
Rattecatchers
would ever see the stage!

“My play?” Hannah simpered. “Oh, dear me, no! Mr. Garrick believes ’tis safe only to hazard a production in the Provinces. He was kind enough to propose persuading the Orchard Street Theater in Bath to present it in April when we all go there to take the waters,” she added, beaming in the direction of her benefactors.

“You suffer from gout?” Sophie asked archly.

“No… but the Garricks have been kind enough to invite me to join them there.” She smiled brightly at Sophie. “As you can imagine, I am filled with gratitude!” She bestowed on her host the full force of her tiny smile. “If you truly write the epilogue, Mr. Garrick, your name on the playbill alone will help attract a crowd.”

“We shall see,” Garrick said mildly. “In the meantime, I’ve invited Sophie for tea to inform her that we plan to begin rehearsals for a Sydney Ganwick play titled
The Rattecatchers
in early March,” he said with a sly wink at Sophie. “Mercifully, we have Edward Capell’s approval—with the usual additions and deletions of course. Therefore, I must speak with you later this afternoon, my dear, concerning the playbills and such.”

Sophie forced herself to focus her eyes on the teacup clutched in her hand to mask the discomforting combination of pleasure, irritation, and guilt that washed over her.

You are an envious, covetous, ungrateful little snipe!
she railed at herself, mortified that she should allow the manipulative Hannah More to cast doubt on the Garricks’ longstanding friendship for her. Miss More could, indeed, flatter and beguile. But, when it came to Drury Lane, neither David or Eva-Maria compromised their standards.

***

“Will you attend your Author’s Third Night?” Lorna asked in a low voice, rising from her table at the Half Moon Tavern to prepare to depart for the theater to dance during the interval following
The Rattecatchers.
“I’ve heard rumors that some of the toffs have found the piece an offensive jibe at their hallowed traditions,” she added, nodding at a group of boisterous young blades decked out at the height of fashion.

“The ‘traditions’ of not paying their bills? Of using women shamelessly?” Sophie scoffed. “’Tis beneficial that someone holds a mirror up to them.”

Lorna tied her cloak under her chin.

“Sophie, you’re becoming a bit of a bluestocking!” Lorna laughed. “The next thing you know, Hannah More will be pleading with you to become your dearest companion.”

“Not bloody likely!” Sophie retorted, taking a draught of her ale. “I’ll look in at the interval.”

But by the time Mr. Collins waved Sophie through the back stage entrance, she realized that a near riot was in progress at the front of the house.

“’Tis those damnable young aristos again,” Collins said, shaking his head disgustedly. “Only this evening, they’ve really gone wild… this Sydney Ganwick fellow, whoever he is, has come in for a lot of abuse this last hour. Garrick may have to—”

The boos and catcalls rose to a deafening pitch, drowning out Collins’s words. The claps and hisses and stomping of feet heard from the boxes became so loud, it was impossible for the actors to continue. Sophie slipped into the shadows near the wings just as David Garrick, looking weary and at the end of his tether, ordered the curtain rung closed.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said quietly, “but ’tis for the safety of the players.”

“I understand,” Sophie replied glumly.

“Come… let us repair to the Greenroom for a brandy.”

The reception area for players was awash with chatter about the evening’s developments. Hannah More and Mrs. Garrick rushed through the throng that jammed the chamber.

“Oh Davy, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Garrick exclaimed.

“’Tis a pity, is it not,” Hannah said soothingly, “that a play with such amusing partisanship prompts such divisiveness. Whoever this Sydney Ganwick is,” she said sanctimoniously, “he would be better served if his next topic did not have so prejudicial a tone. ’Tis dreadful for you to have been subjected to such misery, sir… you, who have given us playwrights such indispensable advice and support.”

Sophie stared at the prim young woman, speechless at the way in which Hannah More could turn everything that transpired around her into a reinforcement of her ostentatious concern for Garrick’s health and welfare.