At the end of the evening, my mother feigned tiredness and said she would go home. “You join your friends for supper in the greenroom, Harriet,” she said, patting my arm. “Mind you travel home safely. I shan’t wait up for you.”
She opened the door of our box and joined the surging crowd snaking down the stairs and out into the street. For some time I sat completely still, savoring the peace. I was free to do as I chose and imagined fleeing to Paris in the dead of night. What a strange place the theater was after a performance. I fancied I could hear lost lines and peals of laughter like bells floating about in the air. The air was dim and smoky. I looked down into the pit where men from the laboring classes elbowed each other and laughed. Some of them tipped their heads back with bottles. It would take some time for the crowd to clear. Most people within a mile of this building had spent at least part of the evening transported to another place.
There was tea, coffee, cucumber sandwiches, and scones in the greenroom; I had never experienced such a feast backstage previously. I was pleased to be acquainted with so many of the actors; I could imagine great stage fright if the place had been new and the faces unfamiliar. For the greenroom was gilded with lush flowers in crystal vases and filled with people who looked like nobility. The ladies wore flowing silks and shining satins. One or two were in warmer muted velvets. The greenroom held every hue of the rainbow and all possible variations. To melt down all the gold within would have been to hold a fortune.
Madame Vestris was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen and was most easily accessible to the doorway, so after pausing briefly I sought her out.
“Miss Smithson,” she grinned with every muscle in her face. “Please meet Lord and Lady Meredith, Lord Simons, the Duke of Wells, the Duke of Suffolk, Lord and Lady Sawyer.”
I curtsied quickly and smiled, looking around the group. After some time I noticed they were still staring at me. I looked to Madame Vestris, who was no longer smiling.
“Miss Smithson, we were just discussing the orchestra’s playing of ‘Rule Britannia.’”
“I see,” I said, earnestly.
Madame Vestris, due to the strength of her voice, was practiced at commanding attention. It was not long before she conducted the conversation once more, the guests nodding politely. I slipped into a reverie. In my mind this was no longer London but Paris, and I was playing a tragic heroine in one of Mrs. Siddons’s best roles. I was Lady Macbeth. I looked up and saw the Duke of Wells peering into my face. As I tried to prevent myself from blushing, he stepped out of the circle and walked around to my left side.
“Miss Smithson,” he said, “can you tell me where I may find the sugar?”
Madame Vestris paused in her sentence, looked to him, and then turned back to the group. “But of course,” I said, leading him to the table in the center of the room. I handed him the silver sugar bowl and spoon, which I had never seen before, wondering who had provided them. The duke held the sugar bowl, peered inside it with green eyes, turned it around in his long fingers, and put it back on the table. He lowered his voice. “You know, from the balcony one does not get the impression of Madame Vestris so outspoken,” he said. I laughed and prayed I would be able to stop.
“I saw you play Anne Boleyn last year. Very good, very good. And soon you will play Lady Anne in Richard III with the riotous Mr. Kean. Many Annes.” I looked away, somewhat anxious to be reminded that I was to play opposite Kean so soon after the very public trial in which his mistress’s husband had taken him to court.
“My sister is also Anne,” I said quickly, wondering how he knew about my forthcoming roles.
“You have quite an unusual style. I should like to watch you play more often,” he smiled. “Your strength is . . . ,” he paused and I concentrated hard, wondering whether he had, in fact, seen me perform at all, “gesture I think. You have fine hands, and you move delicately. Your movements speak to a person’s soul. Sometimes I fancy that you are a dancer. Are you a dancer? One does not need to hear your words.” I had stopped laughing but began to feel very hot in my gown. One of my undergarments was causing me to itch.
“I hope you do not mind me speaking to you like this.” The duke’s head was bent toward mine. “Do forgive me, Miss Smithson. One forgets that one does not actually know you. Watching you perform convinces one that you are a very close friend. Forgive me.”
“Not at all,” my voice sounded unusually loud. “You are very kind.”
That night I was not aware of darkened London streets as I walked home. I forgot to be afraid of deserted alleyways. I barely noticed the snarls of drunken men in the streets. Fallen women appeared to me like angels. In my mind the duke rowed a small boat on a vast lake. I sat under a parasol smiling, wearing a white dress of lace. Occasionally I looked up from my book to read him some Shakespeare. After a time he laid down the oars and moved closer to me. He stroked my face with a finger. Ever so gently he lifted my chin and kissed me. As I paced through London streets I imagined that I floated.
And then I saw myself perform Jane Shore, the duke waiting in the wings. Every time I came off stage he handed me water, encouraged me, praised my performance, kissed my cheek. In fact, he was there in my dressing room, straightening my hair, listening to my lines. He was friendly with other actors, but they all knew it was me he waited for. In summers he traveled to the provinces with me, introducing me to members of society and finding beautiful hotels for us to retire in at ease. During the day we frequently bathed or walked or took tea. The other actors looked on in envy. And he always escorted me to and from the theater in a carriage. I never again had to walk the distance alone.
My mother stirred when I entered the front door. I pretended not to hear her call my name for it intruded upon my thoughts. I yawned loudly so there would be no doubt as to my tiredness, though I feared a sleepless night. In my mind I explored a castle on vast grounds with sprawling gardens. I drank tea with ladies in a parlor. I had enough gowns to wear a different one each day and night for a month and to discard those worn thin.
As I undressed I saw my own bedchamber with fine wooden furniture imported from Denmark. A crackling fire kept me warm. I no longer heard the muffled breathing of my family but instead heard merely the rustling of wind through the trees. Outside my window there were no city lights but rather pure darkness. My pillows were fine duck down, my blankets lambs’ wool. As I curled under the covers I knew I was safe for there were many people within the house with the task of watching over me. Oh, how practiced I was becoming at inhabiting different worlds.
The duke was not a patient man. The following morning I discovered a note and a bouquet on my dressing table at the theater. I was somewhat unnerved by the idea that a stranger had been in my private room while I slept, but if he had examined any of my belongings he had left no sign. I was quite sure the duke would not have made the delivery himself and expected that anyone in his employment would be completely trustworthy. For a duke would have more important secrets than my own to be uncovered. The note requested that my mother and I dine with him after the following Friday evening’s performance at which he would be present.
That afternoon I found my mother sewing. She looked up at me as I entered the room. and I saw her eyes were bloodshot.
“It’s no good.” She threw her sewing into her lap. “My eyes are going. I will not be able to sew much longer.”
I sat down on a chair in silence. Gently my mother placed the fabric and the needle on the small table at her feet.
“Mother, we have an invitation.”
“That’s grand, Harriet. I do not think I will be able to attend. There is so much to be done here. Take your brother.”
“We are invited to the London residence of the Duke of Wells.”
“The Duke of Wells?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Harriet. Something good has come of all this after all. When shall we go?”
“Friday next.”
My mother kept me awake every nigh
t that week with her chattering. How did I know the duke? What kind of person was he? Who else did I think would be at the gathering? I had no answers to any of her questions and thought I would lose my wits altogether. She spent her days adjusting one of my better gowns to fit her widening hips. She no longer complained about her eyes. Joseph grew more and more sullen.
“Why cannot I visit the duke?”
“Because the duke has not invited you and someone must look after your sister.”
“Well, I shan’t. I shall go and play cards with my friends.”
“You will stay here,” my mother glared.
In my dreams I wore rags, and ladies in fine dresses laughed at me. I lost my hair, and my fingernails fell out. I wished I had not been forced to tell my mother of my new acquaintance. For I had rather enjoyed having him to myself. And now she was going to direct me as though she were Elliston himself, telling me where to look and what to say, as though she knew.
All week I quivered during my performances, peering out from the stage to the boxes above, wondering if he was there watching me. I never saw his face, but twice more I received flowers in my dressing room. On one of these evenings as I was leaving with my bouquet, Elliston met me at the backstage door.
“Ah, Miss Smithson. You have an admirer.”
“Yes,” I willed myself not to blush. His breath smelled very sweet.
“Very good, very good. Encourage him, Miss Smithson. For you never know what the future will bring.” He shifted his worn case from his left hand to his right.
“I have lived off the stage these twenty years. And there has not been one,” he shook his left hand, pointing his index finger upward, “not one year when I have not wondered how I will survive. If my daughter were on the stage, Miss Smithson, I would advise her to marry and leave it behind. Watch the stage from the other side, from a private box in the balcony. But never again from behind.”
That Friday evening my mother met me in my dressing room. She found me slumped in front of the mirror wondering if I would ever walk again. I felt as though I had been on an exhausting journey up a mountain but had not yet reached its peak. It was time to either summon the courage to continue or to retreat quietly. But my mother would not give me the choice. Without speaking, she unbuttoned my dress. She poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin and used it to sponge my armpits; my arms jerked violently. She rubbed soap into my skin and dabbed my underarms with a towel until they dried. She pulled a small jar out of her purse.
“Lavender water! Where did you find that?”
She winked and applied it behind my ears and on my chest. “Wherever you walk will be sweetness,” she said, helping me push my arms into the short sleeves once more.
“Harriet, you do look a fright,” she scolded a minute later as she stared at my face in the glass. She placed some rags around my neckline. Three times she squeezed the sponge into the cold water. Then she began to scrub at my face. She smudged the colors so that I turned gray and the water pale pink. I could no longer bear the sight or the stinging soap in my eyes. I closed them and emptied my mind. I sat still as a corpse while my mother worked at my skin. When she had finished I had a pale and gentle complexion. I noticed that my hair shone. My mother stood some feet away and squinted, turning her head on an angle.
“You are like a portrait,” she said. “Now we must go.”
We discovered one of the duke’s carriages awaiting us outside the backstage door. At first I was alarmed that I would be faced with him before I had had the opportunity to prepare myself, but then the driver informed me that the duke’s party had left immediately after the performance in another carriage. It was an immense relief to have a carriage for I could not have walked the distance and my mother feared my damaged appearance before the duke.
She knotted her hands tightly together in her lap, and by the silence I detected she had also clamped her jaw so hard that it was an effort to speak. My spirits were falling faster than usual after a performance on account of so many sleepless nights. The soft leather behind my head cushioned me against the jolts of the carriage, and I fell into a state that was close to sleep.
I was next aware of my mother gripping my arms hard and shaking me violently.
“What! What is it?” My first thought was that the carriage was on fire.
“We have arrived!” she whispered.
I peeled her fingers from my arms and pushed them away in my nervousness.
We alighted from the carriage before an imposing building; there was an air of unreality about it that made me feel as though I continued to dream. But as the butler took our coats and led us inside, the sound of voices grew louder and convinced me of their reality.
There was no hope of slipping into the dining room unnoticed. Our arrival was announced by the butler, and as we entered, people stood and applauded, shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” I curtsied to hide my blushes, and when I looked up the room was a mass of faces and it was as though I were on the stage once more. I stood still, not knowing what to do, and at that moment the duke came and took my hand.
“Mrs. Smithson and Miss Smithson,” he bowed and my mother beamed. Normally I would not have had difficulty recalling the twenty names I learned that evening, but I was so concerned with keeping the smile upon my countenance and appearing polite that I did not hear a single one. The duke sat me by him at the head of the table, and my mother was on my other side. Thus I was freed any unpleasantness that may have come from the other ladies present.
It is known that women of the theater hold a strange fascination for well-bred ladies. Whenever I have met with such ladies, it has been clear that they believe us to have a certain freedom that is not allowed to them. I believe this idea to be wholly false for indeed we are seen to be fallen women whether we are so or not and must be three times as careful as one in a more respected profession. Indeed a woman with no profession at all is the most respected woman one can meet. As a result of these strange ideas as to our liberties, I have often met with hostility. I know that this is also because they fear that we will perform our way into the hearts and trousers of the better men.
The table was long, and there were too many people to conduct a single conversation. Guests spoke in small groups with those sitting around them. My mother and I were engaged in conversation with the duke and a couple sitting opposite us. When I say engaged I mean mainly that we listened and gave every appearance of being involved.
The duke was an excellent conversationalist, unafraid to speak his mind. “No modern writer has understood the passions to the same extent as Shakespeare. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Smithson?”
I drank a little wine, and this added to the warm contented feeling I had that evening. My mother was silent, and it was as though she weren’t there. I noticed her watching me after the soup, to see which cutlery she ought to use with the roasted venison. After checking that no one was watching, I smiled and gestured to the larger knife and fork.
I was reminded of many such evenings with the Castle Cootes and wondered whether there would be play and poetry readings after the meal. I hoped I would not be expected to take part. When I viewed the duke over the top of my spoon he almost looked like Charles Castle Coote. The very name sent a stab of something cold through me, and I returned my thoughts to the present moment. Something like homesickness was spreading over me.
After the meal there was music in the drawing room. By this time it was early morning, and I longed for nothing more than sleep. I whispered this to my mother, and she glared at me.
“Leaving now would be most improper!” she whispered. “Besides, we may have to walk home and that would take all night. Keep your eyes open, Harriet. See how the duke pays you particular attention. When the other guests are leaving he may lend us a carriage.”
I discovered a soft armchair upholstered in tapestry. It was behind the other guests and next to a wall. Although I could not see, I was certainly in a position to hear an excellent musician at the piano.
I was asleep within minutes.
I awoke to discover the duke leaning over me in a most familiar way and touching my hand. The room was silent and almost dark. I sat up in alarm, wondering where my mother had gone.
“Miss Smithson, you must stay, I insist. I do apologize for not giving you a room earlier.”
“But my mother. . . .”
“I am here, Harriet. The duke has kindly invited us to stay.”
A young woman appeared wearing a bonnet from which a few dark hairs escaped untidily.
“Jane, please take Miss Smithson and Mrs. Smithson to their rooms and ensure that they have everything they need.”
The young woman curtsied and I did the same, wondering whether keeping us here was somehow part of his plan.
I was pleased to see that the fire had been burning long enough to produce glowing coals and that it seemed the room had long been prepared for me. I kissed my mother and dismissed the maid, turned the key in the lock, and began to undress. I tried to recall whether I had to attend rehearsal the following morning and then realized that this was near the end of a long week. The following evening’s play was one that did not require rehearsal. My morning would be free. The room was large with dark wooden furniture, heavy curtains, and a soft carpet beneath my bare feet. The bed was tall and large enough for two, I observed. I climbed on it in my underclothes and sank into a soft mattress and pillows. That night I dreamed I slept in clouds.
I confess that when I woke I wondered whether I had begun a new life and all our difficulties were behind us. I wondered what would happen if I simply stayed where I was rather than return to work. But although I had not told the other actors of my admirer, I knew that Fanny Kelly suspected. She had already asked who the flowers were from and was not convinced by the story of my uncle visiting. This was perhaps already enough for rumors to begin circulating. It was equally possible that one of the other guests the previous evening was closely connected with one of the newspapers and would circulate stories for his own amusement. Simply by spending an evening away from home I could turn into another Mrs. Jordan overnight. At best such a reputation could increase one’s popularity and one’s price. At worst it could ensure one was shunned by the theater and the public. One could be pelted with tomatoes and forced to make a public apology on the stage or in the newspapers. I could not bear such shame.
Ophelia's Fan Page 14
