Mistress Firebrand

by Donna Thorland

  “Out of the question,” said Robert Hallam coldly. “We play again on Wednesday. If General Burgoyne wishes to speak with Jenny, he can come to John Street.”

  That, thought Severin, nodding to be polite, was not going to happen.

  Hallam bowed, stiffly, and offered his arm to Jennifer Leighton, but she did not accept it. He was an actor, and a good one. Only his eyes betrayed his displeasure. He turned smoothly to Frances Leighton, who was a veteran player and, fortunately for Hallam, inclined to save the scene. They disappeared together into the crowd, leaving Severin alone with Jennifer Leighton.

  She watched them go, then turned to Devere. “And what did you think of Aunt Frances’ monologue?”

  Another surprise. A more artful woman would not have brought the topic up at all, would have blithely pretended that the whole incident had not happened. Severin should not have felt so pleased that Jennifer Leighton cared to know his thoughts. Or so unhappy that he could not say, Your rescue of your aunt was the most moving thing I have ever seen upon the stage.

  But he could say none of that.

  “The Fair Penitent,” he said, “is perhaps not the most politic choice in New York at the moment. Talk of tyrants tends to be divisive. Americans are ready to see one in any man who disagrees with them.”

  “I might just have to use that line in one of my plays. Are you a regular theatergoer, Mr. Devere?”

  It had been a world of wonders, the first time his mother had taken him, a boy plucked from the forests of New York and thrust into confining clothes and pinching shoes and sick for a month on an ocean voyage he could barely remember. Nothing in London had impressed him, but that cathedral to emotion, the shared trance of the audience, the way his eyes had watered at the end for the hero’s fate . . . Catharsis, he later learned the Greeks called it. He had shed all of his months of grief in the darkness that night. And gone back every chance he got.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is one of the consolations of urban life. A beguiling contradiction: that a narrow wooden box can open on a myriad of wide vistas, tonight Arcadia, tomorrow Rome.”

  “Denmark on Wednesdays, when Bobby is in the mood to soliloquize,” she replied. “Rome, alas, is contested territory. The Whigs cry ‘Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius,’ and the Sons of Liberty sign their letters to the Gazette ‘Brutus’ while the Tories ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’”

  “And whose part do you take?”

  “If the Rebels have their way, I will be forced to play Cleopatra, and turn to Rome to keep my throne. Congress has banned the theater here. There is no future for a playwright in America. I need a patron with influence in London.”

  Something Severin did not have, but Burgoyne did. He should not feel so bitter about it. He had only just met her. He scarcely knew her. He should not even be in New York. The Widow had warned him to leave America and not come back. But for the sabotage of the Boyne, which kept them in the harbor refitting, he would be en route to London now.

  If he pressed her, she would come with him tonight, but he found he did not have the stomach for it and he told himself there was always tomorrow. “If you wish to meet Burgoyne aboard his ship, you can send word to me through the London Coffee House.” He handed her his card.

  She turned it over in her small, neat hands. Jennifer Leighton wore no rings or bracelets. Her nails were smooth, clean ovals but the pads of her fingers on her right hand were smudged with ink, and he found that more charming than sapphires.

  “Se-ve-rin,” she sounded out.

  “Pronounced Sev-ren,” he replied. It should not give him so much pleasure to hear his name trip off her tongue.

  “No doubt Congress would tell you that the extra written syllable was a British extravagance, like the theater,” she said.

  “And Englishmen tell me it is a French extravagance, even at two syllables. ‘Severin’ smacks a deal too much of the Gaul. ‘Severus’—Latin and learned—might be better received by the English and your Congress alike.”

  “Congress,” replied Jenny, “forgets that the ancient republics they admire so much venerated the theater.”

  “They might admit the virtue of tragedy,” suggested Severin.

  “But not of Plautus or Terence.”

  “The servus callidus makes them nervous,” he said, and was gratified at the way her face lit up at the allusion. “To be fair, I am given to understand that the Virginian who leads the army besieging Boston is quite fond of the theater.” This was hardly an item of closely held military intelligence, but it was one of the pieces of minutiae he collected, and he found he wanted to gift it to her.

  “With a taste for the dour and edifying, no doubt,” said Jenny.

  “Cato the Censor,” conceded Severin, “is his favorite play.”

  She shuddered in mock horror; then her clear brow furrowed and mischief lit her eyes. “How do you happen to know such a thing?”

  “Gossip,” he said, lightly. But Frances Leighton’s cold, appraising eye earlier had indicated that she understood exactly how he knew the sort of things he knew. And so would the lovely Miss Leighton, as soon as the Divine Fanny told her. And then she wouldn’t curtsy prettily, as she was doing now, and banter about the theater and Whigs and Tories as she had done tonight.

  She would fear him.

  Four

  Jenny watched Severin Devere leave and felt a surprising pang of disappointment. She wished he had been Burgoyne. She had enjoyed their conversation and had never once, she realized with surprise, felt out of her depth with him, though their talk had ranged from the comfortable and familiar confines of the theater to the thorny and dangerous arena of politics. He had addressed her throughout as an equal.

  She was still examining his card when Bobby Hallam plucked it from her hands and tossed it onto the fire.

  For a second the fine paper rested atop the coals, the firelight glowing orange through the linen weave. Then the edges browned and curled and flames licked across the printed surface until it was wholly consumed.

  “A fine performance,” Jenny said, turning to her employer, “but I memorize hundreds of lines a week. I’m not likely to forget Devere’s name or the direction he left.”

  “No, unfortunately not,” replied Bobby. “A paltry act, satisfying nonetheless. You don’t need him or Burgoyne, Jenny. You don’t need London. I’ll produce anything you care to write, and I won’t expect anything in return for the privilege.”

  For as long as the John Street remained open, which would not be long at all if the Rebels brought their army to New York.

  “There is no harm in dining with the general,” she said.

  “Generals do not dine with actresses to hear their opinions on Aristophanes.”

  “Neither do theater managers,” she said.

  “Do not compare me to a known rake like Burgoyne.”

  “Now, children,” said Frances Leighton, approaching warily.

  “Tell me there is a better way,” Jenny said, turning to her aunt. “Tell me that the patronage of men like Burgoyne did not open doors for you.”

  “If I could tell my younger self anything,” Frances Leighton said carefully, “it would be not to rush headlong through such doors.”

  Jenny knew that her aunt loved her and wanted to protect her, but so had her parents, and if she had listened to them, she would still be in New Bumpkin, far from the footlights of even the provincial John Street Theater. “And how would you characterize my prospects as a playwright in America, under the present circumstances?”

  Frances Leighton had the honesty to look Jenny in the eye and say, “Poor, at best.”

  Jenny turned triumphantly to Bobby, whose expression was grim.

  “Will you force me to play the tyrant?” he asked.

  “You can’t forbid me from going.”

  “No, I can’t f
orbid you, but I can protect you from yourself. I can make you choose. Burgoyne or John Street, Jenny. You can’t have both. Make an assignation with him, and you’re out of the company.”

  * * *

  Severin was grateful for Courtney Fairchild’s presence on the walk back to the waterfront. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts about Jennifer Leighton just yet. It was rare that his conscience troubled him, but it did tonight.

  The amiable Fairchild accompanied him south to the docks, and Severin used the opportunity to gather more intelligence about the situation in New York, which was, in a word, delicate. He had schooled himself to learn a great deal from little things: body language, tones of voice, an overheard word or phrase. By the time they’d reached the quay and Fairchild spoke a boat for him, he knew he had been right to keep Burgoyne aboard the ship.

  “We had two companies of the Royal Irish, my own regiment,” explained Fairchild, “in the garrison, but the men were withdrawn to the Asia after the Provincial Congress threatened to arrest them. The governor still meets with his council daily aboard the Duchess of Gordon, although how long that will continue is difficult to say. The Rebels have threatened to put a stop to it, which will mean the end of any pretense of royal government in New York.”

  The major paused as a small group of mechanics slouched past, making their way, Severin expected, to some nearby tavern. Then Courtney went on more quietly: “Last month Isaac Sears and his Liberty Boys—or the Spawn of Liberty and his Inquisition, as Montresor likes to call them—set fire to the sloop that provisions the Asia, which is why you will have no aid from Captain Vandeput. The next day they rode into New York in broad daylight and confiscated all the type used to print Mr. Rivington’s Tory Gazetteer, leaving us with no newspaper. So much for the free and open encounter of ideas. And the best part? The very best part is that the people we are supposedly here to protect cheered them as they marched out of town playing ‘Yankee Doodle.’

  “You never know who or what their next target will be,” Fairchild continued. “They’ll say it is government and taxes if it suits them, but sometimes it is pure mischief. Looting and outright brigandry. They rampaged through town and arrested a town mayor, a clergyman, and a judge, and I do not doubt it was for the sake of confiscating their property. And there is nothing—nothing—we can do about it until Howe breaks out of Boston and brings his army here.”

  Severin knew better than to say that Howe had no chance of breaking out of Boston. He had infiltrated the Rebel lines in Cambridge for the general himself, walked their ranks in his old battered coat, falling into American speech patterns and using their idioms and being welcomed, warmly, as a brother, along with the other thousands who had flocked to the occupied city’s aid. It was not a professional army. It was a mob, but an angry mob leavened with men who had spent their adult lives fighting the French and the Indians and trained their children up to do the same.

  Courtney, unlike Burgoyne, might actually listen to his opinion on the subject, but of course he could not share it, because it was information he had obtained while spying. His work put him on intimate terms with men like Burgoyne and distanced him from friends like Courtney. Tonight he felt keenly his isolation. He wished he could talk frankly with his friend, share his misgivings about Jennifer Leighton, his disquiet over what had happened in Boston.

  Instead they exchanged family news from home in England, and Fairchild congratulated Severin on his brother’s success in Parliament. Severin thanked him politely. He did his best not to resent his older brother, but some wounds never really healed. It was not Julian’s fault that Lord Devere preferred him, but it had been Julian’s choice to distance himself from his younger brother at school, to make it clear that he believed what the world believed: that Severin was not Lord Devere’s true son.

  Then the boat was ready, and Severin was being rowed out to the Boyne. The water was choppy, mirroring his turbulent thoughts, which swirled around the enigma that was the attractive little playwright.

  He did not want her to meet with Burgoyne.

  She lived, according to Fairchild, with Frances Leighton, so she could not be naive. Innocent, perhaps, though even that was doubtful for a grown woman—approaching her middle twenties, he’d suppose—connected with the theater. Even if she had written the letter to Burgoyne without the insight of her worldly aunt or the shrewd Robert Hallam, they would have acquainted her with its practical implications by now. If she came aboard the Boyne to dine with the general, it would be with a full understanding of Burgoyne’s expectations.

  It was no concern of Severin’s at all.

  He could not get it out of his head.

  He did not report to Burgoyne on his night’s reconnaissance when he reached the Boyne. He was not certain, just yet, what he wanted to do about Jennifer Leighton.

  He could not sleep, so he busied himself making notes on his personal observations in New York and recording details he had learned from Fairchild. When light began filtering through the gun port in his cramped quarters, he locked his papers in his chest and went in search of Captain Hartwell.

  They agreed in the main that the Boyne must be made ready to sail to England as quickly as possible and that work, once supplies came aboard, must be carried out round the clock. They differed on how easily this might be accomplished.

  “What Captain Vandeput possesses in his stores,” said Hartwell with asperity, “he is loath to part with. He must keep the Asia in good repair or he will lose all semblance of control over the city. His sloop is burnt and he knows that the town may turn on him at any time, and he cannot rely on the locals for reprovisioning if we exhaust his warehouse. That leaves us bargaining directly with the merchants of New York, Devere, who know we have no other choice, and that means that we have no bargaining position at all. They gouge us, plain and simple. They want hard specie, and the Boyne does not carry sufficient gold to pay them for your necessaries. If General Burgoyne wishes to be under way, he is welcome to make up the shortfall out of his own pocket, because I—quite bluntly—am not in a position to do so.”

  “Then what, exactly, are you doing?” Severin asked.

  “I’ve dispatched a request to the admiral in Boston for funds.”

  That would take a week—if the admiral had funds available to release to them. A week before serious repairs could begin, pushing them deeper into December and rough sailing weather, which might mean further delays.

  “We cannot wait a week,” said Severin.

  There were several reasons they could not wait a week that had absolutely nothing to do with keeping Jennifer Leighton out of Burgoyne’s bed. A week was sufficient time for news of his presence to reach the Widow in Boston. She had spared his life in their last encounter, but he knew better than to count on her mercy a second time, because he knew what she looked like now.

  Sentiment, Severin assured himself, played no part in his calculations. It was self-preservation, plain and simple, and had nothing to do with the fate of a pretty actress.

  Hartwell only shrugged. “Conditions do not favor a speedy departure,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  Naval men, in Severin’s experience, blamed a great deal on conditions: on weather and supply and forces beyond their control. Whereas, in the army, no one was ever allowed to say, Sorry we couldn’t have a battle that day because the wind wasn’t right and we were short a cask of salt beef.

  “That won’t answer,” said Severin.

  “Then fix it, Devere. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  It was what he did. Sometimes with ruthless violence. Never before had he questioned the necessity of . . . doing whatever was necessary. Now was not the time to start.

  * * *

  Jenny had not been able to sleep after her quarrel with Bobby Hallam. She had left the greenroom as soon as she could slip away, hoping her aunt would follow. But Frances Leighton had
remained downstairs, in her element: drinking brandy, gambling, and keeping the patrons of the John Street Theater guessing as to who among them would be the one to enjoy her much acclaimed favors. Such speculation kept the boxes full at night, which was why Bobby covered the Divine Fanny’s modest losses at cards—Jenny suspected that her aunt lost exactly what she chose to lose—and let them their rooms above so cheaply. And it was also why he made no mention of Aunt Frances’ bad spells.

  For hours Jenny lay awake in bed tossing and turning. She desperately wanted to talk to Fanny. As the night wore on, the stuffy garret chamber she so loved—that had represented freedom and possibility to her when they’d first arrived in New York—started to feel like a cage.

  So she freed herself the way she had always done at home in New Brunswick: by opening a book. After an hour with The Adventures of Unca Eliza Winkfield, she was even less sleepy than before, so she sharpened her pen and opened her desk and resumed work on the new play she was writing. She found a place to insert Severin Devere’s perceptive line about tyrants, which was good, but she discovered that she did not know how to resolve the subplot about the farmer’s daughter, which was frustrating.

  Finally, as dawn approached, and the carters and drovers began to rumble by in the street below, she wrapped herself in her shawl and went downstairs in search of Frances Leighton.

  Fanny had the great drafty second-floor room on the west side of the house with the modern fireplace. This morning her door was closed. Jenny had never known her aunt to entertain gentlemen. In fact, for a woman so famous for her love affairs, she had been remarkably chaste since coming to America. She had taken no lovers that Jenny knew of, and she and her aunt were apart only rarely in New York.

  But Jenny had learned from experience that after a night spent gambling and drinking in the greenroom, Frances Leighton was no good to anyone before noon.

  Jenny decided against going back to her bed and curled up on the daybed in the parlor. She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew she was opening her eyes and the room was already warm, and the maid who cooked and cleaned for them was kneeling in front of the hearth toasting cakes and boiling water for tea.