Wicked Company (98 page)

“Certainly we can wed!”

“No, we cannot because…I am
already
married.”

“Peter is
dead,”
Lord Darnly said flatly.

Sophie studied him closely. His demeanor revealed not a shred of compassion for his former companion.

“That is correct… Peter Lindsay is dead,” she echoed. “Therefore, I was free to marry and during your absence, I did.”

“Marry?”
Darnly exclaimed, stunned. “How could you marry and I not
know
of it?”

“Because ’twas a private matter between Hunter Robertson and me,” she replied, standing to depart.

“You married that scoundrel, Robertson?” he exploded. “But he’s in prison!”

“That’s where I married him,” Sophie retorted. “I obtained a special license and the rector from St. Paul’s was persuaded to perform the ceremony in Newgate in front of four witnesses, thanks to the assistance of certain influential people,” she pronounced.

An eerie silence filled the empty auditorium. The house servants had performed their tasks and departed. Near darkness enveloped the hall. A single taper burning inside its glass lamp attached to a nearby wall illuminated the earl’s face. Roderick’s eyes narrowed with barely contained fury.

“Why you little gutter slut!” he exclaimed scathingly. “You scribbling little strumpet! You—”

The earl seemed paralyzed by this sudden rush of ire. Sophie stared, astonished that his apparent show of tenderness should be transformed so swiftly into seething rage. He glared at her, speechless. But Sophie finally found her tongue.

“’Tis most curious, m’lord,” she countered in a low voice, “that in one breath you claim your greatest desire is to put your bachelor ways behind you and make me your beloved and respected countess—and in the next, you call me a whore!”

Slinging her cloak about her shoulders, she lashed out, “Since first I met you long ago in Bath, I’ve always thought there was something secretive… something odd about you. And then in Wales, when I witnessed those strange rituals you and your friends performed in the grove…well, I—”

She brought herself up short as he appeared he might strike her within the close confines of David Garrick’s theater box. She moved swiftly toward the door, pausing only to inquire, tight-lipped, “May I assume from the tenor of our present conversation that your offer of marriage is summarily withdrawn?”

“Yes!” hissed the Earl of Llewelyn.

“Then, m’lord”—she said over her shoulder as she fled the Great Garrick’s private box, “I bid you good night.”

Thirty-Seven

The following morning, Sophie left Rory busily setting type for a tradesman’s card and called at Newgate jail as soon as the keeper’s gate was unlocked. Ignoring her unnerving encounter with the Earl of Llewelyn, she thought to cheer her new husband with news of another packed house and word that Garrick was due in London this day and could perhaps pry her author’s fees from Sheridan. She also wanted Hunter’s advice on measures to take, now that Hannah More had learned the identity of Sydney Ganwick.

“Sorry, but I have my orders,” the warden announced gruffly. “No visitors.”

“But I have a right to see my husband!” Sophie protested.

“Husband is it? I’m told the magistrates are looking into that, miss.”

“Ask the turnkey!” Sophie cried. “He stood witness. The rector of St. Paul’s performed the service. We’re as
married
as any two people could be!”

“Says here you and Robertson cuckolded one Peter Lindsay,” the jail keeper noted, reading from a sheet of parchment on his desk. “We can’t be aiding and abetting adultery, miss.”

“You aid and abet adultery every day of the week, bringing whores in here,” she exploded, “and turn a fine profit doing it!”

“Watch that Scottish temper of yours, missy,” the keeper said menacingly, “or I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace!”

Sophie was in a frenzy of worry by the time she rounded the corner near Number 5 Adelphi Terrace. A coach and four was just pulling up in front of Garrick’s house. The driver and a footman leapt down and attempted to assist a stooped figure emerging from the carriage. Nearby, Mrs. Garrick and Hannah More fluttered around the invalid to no real purpose.

“Oh, Sophie… it took us all night to travel from Althorp. Every bump in the road was agony for him. He’s terribly ill. We must send for the doctor,” Eva-Maria declared distractedly.

David Garrick raised his head, his features ravaged with pain. Sophie tried to smile encouragingly.

“So glad you’re back,” she said soothingly, her own troubles forgotten for the moment. “Here… Hannah… let us go ahead and prepare his chamber…” Meanwhile, Mrs. Garrick directed the butler, who had just appeared, to fetch the physician.

Garrick’s manservant prepared him for bed while the women sat vigil downstairs sipping the strong tea Hannah had ordered the housekeeper to brew. Mercifully, the doctor soon arrived and was shown upstairs. Within a quarter hour, he entered the sitting room. Eva-Maria jumped up from her chair, wringing her hands in anticipation of the worst.

“He has a high fever and pain. I fear the gallbladder may have ruptured…” the doctor began.

“What will happen now?” Mrs. Garrick asked anxiously.

The doctor shook his head sadly.

“His pulse grows weaker and… there’s very little we can do, dear lady,” the physician said gently. “We shall administer more laudanum if the pain becomes too—”

Mrs. Garrick began to cry softly and Hannah was quick to put an arm around her, easing her back into a chair.

“Which of you is Sophie?” the doctor inquired.

“I-I am,” Sophie faltered.

“He was asking for you.”

Sophie glanced uncertainly at Mrs. Garrick, who urged her to proceed upstairs. She entered the darkened bedchamber on the second floor where David Garrick lay as still as a corpse in the large canopied bed that reminded Sophie of the others in which the celebrated actor had played dramatic death scenes.

“You had come to see me?” Garrick said, barely above a whisper. His skin had taken on a deep, yellow hue.

“That’s not important now,” Sophie replied, swallowing a lump in her throat.

“Tell me why you’ve come,” he commanded, looking at her strangely.

“I’ve suddenly been forbidden entrance to Newgate… the jailor claims the authorities are looking into the legality of my marriage to Hunter,” she said, the horror of her own situation sweeping over her with full force. “I fear it may be Darnly’s doing… he asked for my hand last night and was enraged at hearing—”

“Find me quill and paper,” Garrick said hoarsely. “We must put an end to this incessant meddling by Roderick Darnly. Over there… by the window… on the desk.”

Sophie sprang to do his bidding. With supreme effort, he dictated to her a short letter asking Sheridan that all fees earned by Sydney Ganwick to date be committed to the care of Sophie McGann Robertson forthwith and forever from this date.

“Another… we must write another,” he croaked.

“Oh, sir… are you certain you’re able—”

“Quickly, my girl!” he snapped with a modicum of his former authority. “To the Honorable Lord Mansfield, King’s Bench,” he began, and then dictated a missive that recounted the recent, unhappy demise of the bogus baronet, Peter Lindsay. Garrick charged that from the beginning, the suit for Criminal Conversation had been instigated at the behest of the Earl of Llewelyn, both to satisfy a debt owed him by Lindsay and to seek revenge on Hunter Robertson for having proven the nobleman a cheat in the matter of finances at Sadler’s Wells. Garrick’s last paragraph to the judge attested to Hunter’s good character and urged in the strongest possible terms that the defendant be released, paying only a token fine of ten pounds or so for the court’s trouble.

“Here,” he said, gasping for breath. “I must sign both letters. Ask Hannah to see the one addressed to Lord Mansfield is delivered by my servant, or he might think it a forgery.”

Tears obscured Sophie’s vision as she extended the papers and quill to the invalid who scrawled “D. Garrick” across the bottom of each page.

“Now,” he directed weakly, “go into my study next door and select one of the finest Shakespeares… a morocco leather-bound edition, if you can find one.”

Sophie quickly retreated to the adjacent chamber and did as she was ordered.

“Edward Capell is not a man I would consider an amiable friend any longer, but I admire his restoration of Shakespeare’s texts,” Garrick said, breathing with difficulty. “We have had many interests in common over the years, and perhaps if… here… let me write on the flyleaf…”

Sophie opened the book, holding it steady while Garrick scratched something with his quill.

“‘With all my admiration, D. Garrick,’” Sophie read in a breath.

“This is really for you. Give it to Capell
only
if you must and say… ’tis my last wish to see
School for Fools
continue.” Garrick’s face suddenly contorted with pain. “Oh, God!” he cried out suddenly. “Oh… please…
please,
Sophie! Fetch me something for the pain… Ohh!” he groaned.

Sophie ran to the landing and was about to call for help when Hannah More, together with the doctor and Mrs. Garrick, appeared at the bottom of the staircase, drawn by the sound of David’s cries.

“He’s in great distress!” Sophie rasped.

“You’ve exhausted him!” Hannah snapped, brushing past.

Stricken by her censure, Sophie exchanged glances with Eva-Maria.

“He’s so very fond of you both,” she murmured, gently squeezing her hand. “I must not leave him again.”

The door shut and Sophie was left standing alone at the top of the landing clutching a copy of
The Tempest
and the two letters that she had taken down in dictation. Shaken, she grasped the banister and slowly made her way downstairs, feeling as if her heart were made out of lead. She waited several minutes in the sitting room, and when no one returned, she prepared to depart the silent house.

“I pray forgiveness for my shortness of temper,” Hannah declared, entering the chamber suddenly as Sophie was donning her cloak. “But he is very bad.”

“I know…” Sophie said, mortified by the tears running freely down her face. She fumbled to extract the letter to Lord Mansfield from the other items clutched in her hand. “He asked that you should send his liveried servant to deliver this to Lord Mansfield at King’s Bench immediately.”

“And the book?” Hannah inquired sharply, her gaze fastening on the burgundy and gold binding.

“A gift…” Sophie replied, certain that such generosity did not please Garrick’s ubiquitous houseguest.

For an instant, Sophie took pleasure at Hannah’s look of envy as she tucked the precious volume beneath her cloak. But then she was ashamed, recalling her own discomfort when her rival had been given the honored place next to Garrick in the Greenroom when their mentor announced his retirement to his loyal company.

Thou shalt not covet!

She could almost hear the clerics of St. Giles thundering from the pulpit. Well, they were correct in such admonitions, Sophie thought ruefully. Envy was truly a despicable emotion. It made life miserable for everyone concerned and she hated it when she saw it in herself. Hadn’t envy
been the root of much of Roderick Darnly’s unhappiness within his family circle? Suddenly, she wished to make amends. Impulsively, she reached out and seized Hannah’s hand.

“I know how difficult all this must be for you,” she said tentatively. “You’ve been a great source of strength to everyone. Please give my love to Eva-Maria…” she added, backing out of the sitting room.

“I will tell Mrs. Garrick of your concern,” Hannah said briskly. “Good-day.”

Sophie set off at a dead run down the few short blocks to Drury Lane and sought out Sheridan.

“He’s dying,” she announced with an anguished cry, shutting the door to the manager’s office behind her. Richard Brinsley Sheridan was seated at the desk where Garrick and Sophie had held so many conferences. As she took her customary chair facing the bookshelves crammed with playscripts, the full impact of the tragedy unfolding at Adelphi Terrace overwhelmed her and she began to sob. When her tears finally subsided, she gratefully accepted Richard’s handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “And something else… he wrote this to you, barely a half hour ago,” she added, handing him the letter requesting Sheridan to release all of author Sydney Ganwick’s fees to her.

“Were you his mistress or his favorite scribe?” Sheridan inquired calmly, studying the letter from Garrick.

Stung by his accusation, she blurted, “A
dramatist,
of course! He adores Eva-Maria!”

“Ah-ha! So
you
were Sydney Ganwick all along! Darnly had his suspicions, he said, but I honestly believed it was Garrick himself! By God, girl… you’re
good!
But if Edward Capell ever discovers Sydney Ganwick is a woman, he’ll scream like a banshee!”