by Joan Smith
This offhand speech, placing Perdita in the light of a piece of merchandise for hire, and myself as a flesh-broker nearly robbed me of rational speech. “I wish you will talk sense!” was all I could think of to say in refutation.
"Well make a counter offer,” was his astonished reply. Perhaps the offer was generous, as these matters go. "Naturally I mean to carry all the costs of her establishment, and so on. She will be safe, and well cared for with me. I can supply character references, if you fear I mean to abuse the girl.”
“I cannot think character references for a Mr. Brown would be at all enlightening,” I answered in a voice of heavy irony.
His eyes narrowed in quick suspicion. He was silent a moment, probably considering whether it were safe to tell me his real name. He looked back towards Perdita, who smiled and waved her fingers at him. Such an expression came over his face, a foolish, fatuous, lecherous, eager smile. He turned slowly back to me.
“Any contract you have with the girl would not be valid, Molly. She is obviously a minor. I don’t know what she may mean to you . . ."
“A great deal.”
"Relative? Niece, sister—what? Are you her legal guardian?”
"Yes," I said at once, to bolster my claim. “She is my responsibility, and she is not ripe for the sort of life you are interested in procuring for her.”
"She won’t make a ripple on the stage, if that is what you have in mind. She has beauty, but no voice, and no histrionic ability.”
“That need not concern you.”
“It doesn’t. Your being with this traveling whorehouse tells me very clearly what you both are. Now, cut line and let us arrange the business, or I shall bypass you in the negotiations entirely. It does not do to be too greedy, and as to your alleged guardianship, you are quite obviously unfit for it. I cannot think your character would stand up in court.”
I was at point non plus. I could not dare to tell him the truth, reveal our real names, and nothing else would convince him we were anything but what we seemed. I saw, from the corner of my eye, Angie saunter in the door, pinning up her hair and straightening her gown. Our carriage was free now. We could leave, but first I had to get rid of Mr. Brown, so he did not see where we went. Looking around the hall, I caught O’Reilly’s eye. He came forward at an imploring look from me.
“What can I do for you, Molly my lass?” he asked in a hearty, cheerful voice, but he was measuring Mr. Brown’s shoulders as he spoke, ready to treat him as roughly as was called for.
“Mr Brown is being a nuisance, O’Reilly,” I said. “He would like to leave, but cannot find the door.”
“Come along, lad. If the lady says no, she means no. Molly don’t mince words. She speaks right on.” He clamped one of his hairy hamhocks on Brown’s elegant shoulder, and lifted him bodily from the floor. You never saw such an astonished face in your life as Mr. Brown wore. I could not suppress a smile, and didn’t try very hard, either.
O’Reilly dropped his opponent so hard the floor shook. While Brown was still on his way to the ground, he turned around and let a quick jab flash into O’Reilly’s stomach. A pained howl and a curse were emitted simultaneously. The quick jab was followed by a blow to O’Reilly’s jaw. I stood by horrified as Daugherty came darting forward to join the fray. Within seconds, the rest of the party had formed a ring around the fighters, like boys watching a dogfight. I did not wait to see more, but pulled Perdita out of the ring and towards the door. The sounds behind us indicated a free-for-all was fast developing. We went to the carriage, got in, and sat shivering on the banquettes.
“I hope he doesn’t know we’re here,” I said. "If he comes looking for you, Perdita, I mean to knock him out. In fact, I am going to get a weapon this instant.” I checked the door of the hall to see no one was coming out, before jumping out of the carriage to look around in the darkness. I found a stout tree-branch and a large rock. There we sat in the carriage, holding our makeshift weapons, while Perdita giggled and crowed over her conquest.
"He came twenty-five miles to see me.”
"It is nothing to boast of. The man is a hardened rake. His sort ought to be behind bars, and not walking loose to pester innocent women. If I were not afraid of the publicity, I would lodge a complaint against him.”
"I think he’s handsome.”
"He's a regular Don Juan.”
"Oh but I always wanted to tame a rake. If he knew who I really am, he would be interesed in more than a mistress-ship. He would marry me.”
"Would he not make a fine, upstanding husband? You would not be subjected to much of his company, at any rate. He’d be out burning up the countryside, squandering his fortune on a new lightskirt every season.
"How much did he offer?”
"I shan’t insult you by saying.”
“A gent once offered Phoebe two hundred a year, plus paying for all her expenses.”
The vulgar “gent” annoyed me as much as the rest of her speech. “Generous!” I said sardonically. It would not do to flatter her with the sum after this revelation. She might take into her head to accept the offer. Anything seemed possible in this demimonde we had fallen into.
We sat for a long time, watching, waiting, talking, with me trying to get some propriety into her head, and herself oblivious to anything but the glory of having had a degrading offer from a rake.
It was our new custom to sleep in our petticoats, but I could not like to be so scantily-clad in case we were hauled from the flimsy safety of our carriage. We kept our gowns on our backs till Mr. Brown came out. I had hoped to see him flung from the door headfirst, as he deserved, but Daugherty was keen to keep any altercation to a minimum, because of the law. When Brown came out, Mick accompanied him. They had reached the best of terms. Mick had his arm flung around the man’s shoulder, their heads together, talking.
"He's trying to press Phoebe on him,” Perdita said, in a voice of pique.
“An ideal match. I wish him luck.”
I began to think the girl was right. The two men went into the blue carriage, Phoebe’s red satin place of business. Mick would take a discreet departure, and Phoebe would slip in. This was not quite what happened. The men entered the carriage, stayed for about a quarter of an hour, during which Phoebe did not join them. Then Brown came out and walked away, whistling merrily, while Daugherty stood at the carriage door, looking after him, and patting his pocket in a satisfied way that suggested he had got money out of the scoundrel.
When Brown was safely away, I went out to speak to Daugherty. “What happened? How did you get rid of him?”
“Never underestimate the power of persuasion, Molly my girl. I talked him out of it.”
“Yes, but how?”
He put his head back and laughed. “I told him April will be a mother in half a year, and he was amazingly eager to forget her. His sort don’t want a by-blow around their necks. Why, ‘twould be enough to give a lad a bad name.”
One becomes accustomed to even violent shocks after a while. I had learned so many strange, debauched things during the past days that my only reaction was amusement, even admiration at his quick thinking. “You are up to all the rigs, Mick. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you are not up to snuff, Mol. Why, I begin to think you need a keeper yourself.”
“I still don’t see how you got money out of him for telling him. Never mind trying to con me, Mick. I saw you patting your pocket. How much did you get? Enough to hire a room at the inn?”
“Devil a bit of it. He gave me a guinea for recommending a female to him, one of my ex-girls who has set up trade in London.”
“I hope he goes directly to her, and never darkens the door of our theater again.”
"That's exactly what he plans. Don’t worry your pretty head he’ll be pestering April.”
As he spoke, his arm went around my shoulders, his hand falling rather low on my chest. “Well, the night’s young, and the brat is tucked up safe in her bed. What do
you say you and I . . ." He looked over his shoulder at the blue carriage, then back to me, with a wary half smile.
I should have beat him, or kicked him, or at least expressed a decent Christian outrage. Perhaps it was my relief at his having got rid of Brown for us that mitigated my wrath. “I don’t think so, Mick,” was all I said. I tried to hold in my giggles till I got inside our own carriage, without quite succeeding. He hunched his shoulders philosophically, and reentered the Green Room to try his luck elsewhere, while Perdita and I finally undressed for the night. We curled up, one on each banquette of the carriage, with pillows behind us and a blanket on top. It was not so uncomfortable as you might imagine, though I was longing for a long soak in a tub, and some clean clothing.
* * *
Chapter 6
The remainder of our stay with Tuck’s Traveling Theater was relatively uneventful, but only relatively so. Prior to leaving home, cooking over an open fire, singing on the stage, helping O’Reilly rob stores and being propositioned by provincial squires would have been something of an event in our quiet, respectable lives. It was the relief of having at last lost Mr. Brown that made our other activities seem tame in comparison. He was not on hand at Farnbrough nor at Woking, which deal Daugherty closed successfully.
I began to see there was something in O’Reilly’s claim that the shopkeepers raised their prices for us. When we went to buy our food at Farnbrough, we had a female serve us, a rather handsome lady with an eye for O’Reilly. The two of them bantered and flirted while the purchases were made, but when she weighed our ham, her thumb came down heavy on the scales, while her flashing eyes diverted his attention. When I saw her tallying up seven and a half pounds for a piece of meat that weighed five without her help, I was not slow to scoop a handful of cigars up for my friend, and conceal them in my skirt pocket. He was too besotted with her eyes to do it for himself.
“A handsome woman,” he said as we walked back to the hall.
"As handsome a hussy as ever pushed her thumb on the scales,” I told him.
“Did she now? Ah well, a body has to live, Mol,” he said leniently. “We all need to look out for ourselves—you and me and the shopkeepers. A man needs food, and love. The food’s been grand since you joined us.”
“Have the girls not been treating you well?”
“Ye know I don’t care for none of them fireships. Who else would I be giving this to but you?” he asked, pulling a very ugly little statuette out of his pocket. It was of Cupid, holding a bow in one hand, and a heart in the other. I had seen it before, about five minutes ago, on the shelf of the shop. It had not been amongst our purchases. He nabbed it from the shelf, while rolling his eyes at the clerk.
“I didn’t forget you either, O’Reilly,” I told him, taking the gimcrack thing, and giving him his cigars. "I believe we broke even on that deal. I didn’t know how many cigars to nab, but as I was ciphering in my mind, I don’t believe I took enough.”
“You’re coming on grand,” he praised.
“Thank you. I daresay I have been cheated in the shops all my life, without realizing it.”
O’Reilly stole other things, too. Eggs never purchased appeared for breakfast, and once a lovely green goose, certainly removed from a neighborhood wall, where it had been hanging, but he never got caught at it. I chided him for stealing when the victim had no chance to retaliate, like the shopkeepers.
“Don’t half the village sneak in after we stop guarding the door?” he pointed out. “We sold a hundred and twenty-three tickets last night, and everyone of the two hundred seats was full before the show was over. Fair’s fair.”
His original bookkeeping in the field of ethics was difficult to refute, though I do not mean to say I think it was right.
Business was good enough that we could sleep in a cheap inn that night, which also allowed us the luxury of washing our linens and taking a bath, and sleeping in a bed, but unfortunately we had to share our room with Angie and another actress, who snored.
In the morning, we were off on the last lap to London. The crew spoke of “Mother Gaines's" as being the place we would put up there. “Where is this place, O’Reilly?” I asked my faithful companion, as we sat over breakfast at the inn before leaving. “In fact, what is it?”
“A rough and tumbling boardinghouse in the east end of the city. You’ll find many traveling troupes meeting in that neighborhood this time of the year, readying their show for the summer circuit. There’ll be bargaining for work, deciding on shows and costumes. Will you stay on?”
“No, we only stay till London. I have to take April there.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard. And what will you do with yourself then, when the gel is gone?”
“I will go with her.”
“Nay, her man won’t want that.”
“She is not going to a man. That is a nasty rumor I cannot seem to squash.”
“She’ll find one soon enough,” he told me, with a doubting look, still believing I whitewashed our true characters.
I just smiled and shook my head, not wanting to be too informative. “I’ve a plan to put to, you,” he said tentatively.
“What is that?”
He drummed his hairy fingers on the table, then suddenly reached out and grabbed my hands in a numbing grip. “Marry me,” he said. I blinked a couple of times, while considering what refusal to make to this unexpected proposal. I did not want to hurt O’Reilly’s feelings. Of the whole crew, he was my favorite. Warts and all, I appreciated him.
“You’re not like the others, lass. You’ve got spunk, and are dashed pretty, too, beneath your nice as a nun’s hens manners. This voyaging life isn’t for the likes of you. I’ll get a regular job and set you up a cottage. How would you like that, eh?”
“That—that sounds very cosy, O’Reilly,” I said, in a high, unnatural voice. I was overcome with emotion. “Actually, I have got a job lined up,” I said, to soften the blow.
“Doing what?”
“Nursemaid,” I answered, grabbing at the first thought that offered.
He laughed. "That's a new word for what you do. Who is your new girl?”
He clearly thought I meant to set up, or continue, as an abbess. I believe both he and Mick thought I was delivering Perdita to some rich patron in the city. Various remarks they made suggested it.
"Now you wouldn’t want me to give away trade secrets,” I said, bantering my way out of a real answer.
“Be sure to get her under contract next time.”
"What do you mean?”
"Just do what O’Reilly tells you. Sure you won’t change your mind, Mol? I meant to do it up right, with a priest and all.”
“I’m sure, but I am flattered you asked me.” He did not remain long after that.
We arrived at Mother Gaines’s boardinghouse in mid-afternoon. My first move upon arrival was to write a note to Alton’s, asking John to come and fetch us. I sent it off with the houseboy, giving him the last shilling I had to my name. That accomplished, there was nothing to do but wait for his arrival.
There was a large parlor in the house which was used as a common room for the various people putting up chez Mother Gaines. One fails to try to imagine what life had produced such a character as Mother Gaines, who took infinite delight in opening her portals to such tag rag and bobtail as were assembled there. She asked no question but the important one; did you have any money? That ascertained, she welcomed you with small ale and small talk, all of it related to the theater. She looked like a gargoyle from some ancient building come to life and painted up with rouge. Some of our group were there, exchanging anecdotes with another traveling show. Others of us had gone shopping, or out for a walk.
Queen Phoebe descended the stairs in her finest raiments, the plate bonnet and ostrich plumes. “Are you going to take your constitewtional now, Phoebe?” Perdita asked. I am not sure whether she poked fun at the girl’s pronunciation, or had picked up this vulgar mannerism unconsciously. I think t
hat, in spite of my scorn, she rather admired Phoebe.
I expected some fireworks, as Phoebe still disliked my charge very cordially. But she was in a tolerant mood today. “I’ve an appointment at the Garden, dear,” she said.
“Good luck. I hope you get the job. What role is it?”
“Nothing you would be interested in."
“Covent Garden nun,” Angie whispered, not quite softly enough.
Phoebe’s fine dark eyes sparkled in anger. "We're not all in that trade, Angie.” Her eyes also stared rather hard at Perdita. “Some of us are able to act, but I think you are wise to close with Mr. Brown, April.” She swept from the room, her ostrich plumes dancing behind her.
I had hoped I had heard the name of Brown for the last time. I looked uneasily at my charge, wondering if it were possible she had set up some meeting with him behind my back. She only looked amused. “What have you in mind, Angie?” she asked her friend.
"If Queen Phoebe really gets an offer from the Garden, Mick says I’ll be his new leading lady. If she don’t, I’ll just go on playing second fiddle.”
Mick came over to us. Before we had been chatting for long about the subject that consumed them all—what was to be done next—John Alton was announced.
What a blessed relief it was to see a respectable old friend after our sorry escapade. “What in the deuce are you girls doing in this hole?” he demanded bluntly, with no regard for the others’ feelings. “I made sure it was a mistake when I read the address. You ought to know better than to bring Perdie here, Moira.”
Mick looked positively alarmed. “Who is this?” he asked.
Meanwhile Perdita had jumped up to greet her neighbor. In her excitement, and with an unsavory use of her new manners, she threw her arms around him.
