Fates and Traitors

by Jennifer Chiaverini

One afternoon while Junius was supposed to be at rehearsal, Mary Ann glanced out the window and was surprised to see him storming home, shoulders squared and head bowed as if he strode into a gale. She rose and went to meet him at the door, her first thought that the children had disobeyed her, that he had spied them watching him rehearse, that they had fled and he was in hot pursuit.

  “Junius?” she greeted him, but the look on his face, flushed with anger and dread, silenced her.

  “She’s here,” he said, short of breath, his usually rich, compelling voice strangled in his throat. “Adelaide. She’s come to Baltimore.”

  Adelaide Delannoy Booth, Junius’s wife.

  For nearly thirty years, an ocean had separated Junius from his wife and eldest son, an ocean and an even broader chasm of lies and deception and steady financial support meant to keep Adelaide reassured and safely remote. For nearly thirty years, Adelaide had endured her husband’s long sojourn abroad, raising their son alone in London and in Brussels, where her mother lived, where she and Junius had met as he toured Europe with a group of traveling players. In all that time, regular, generous payments and utter ignorance of the new family he had created with Mary Ann had kept Adelaide content with their arrangement, but now, now—

  Mary Ann’s hand flew to her heart, her fingertips brushing the brooch with Byron’s portrait that Junius had given her so many years ago, when he had renounced his wife and firstborn son and had begged her to run away with him, when she had agreed to be his forever. “Are you certain Adelaide is in Baltimore?” she asked. Then she remembered the hired carriage she had observed parked across the street from their home, and the strange sensation that hostile, hateful eyes were upon her, and she knew.

  “Absolutely certain,” said Junius. “She interrupted rehearsal to confront me in front of the entire cast, the crew, staff, everyone. The manager persuaded her to retire to his office, but even with the door closed, they must have heard every word of her denunciation.”

  Then the story was surely already spreading throughout Baltimore—the story, but not the truth.

  Although she was but a girl not yet eighteen and her devout Anglican parents had forbidden her to set foot within a theatre, Mary Ann Holmes knew that the rising young actor Junius Brutus Booth was a genius. All the London papers said so, even those that complained he was driving the city “Lear-mad” with astonishing, revelatory performances that compelled throngs of his exultant admirers into the streets, passionately reciting the mad king’s monologues and chanting the star’s name. Performances of King Lear had been forbidden for nearly a decade—the depiction of a monarch’s insanity was uncomfortably familiar as well as impolitic—but with George III’s passing in 1820, the Shakespearean tragedy had been revived. Critics agreed that in his brilliant, riveting portrayal of the title role, Junius Brutus Booth had no equal.

  Mary Ann knew too that he was handsome, breathtakingly so. This she had seen for herself as she wandered among the farm stalls, food vendors, and fortune-tellers at the Covent Garden market, selling flowers her parents raised in their nursery in Marsh Gate. Often she glimpsed him on his way to or from the theatre, smiling and laughing as he strode along with his fellow actors, his arm slung over a companion’s shoulders, or alone, lost in thought, mulling over his lines or cues. He was not a large man, no more than five and a half feet tall, but his piercing blue eyes, intelligent gaze, long dark hair, and striking features gave him such presence that he seemed to tower over other men. Once their eyes met across the teeming marketplace, and for a moment he seemed to pause and hold her gaze, as riveted by her beauty as she was by his. A friend chivied him along, but she remained rooted to the spot until the warmth that had risen within her had dissipated, until he disappeared into the theatre and the spell was broken.

  Secretly she saved her pennies until she had scraped together enough to buy a ticket to see him perform King Lear at the Covent Garden Theatre in October 1820. She must have breathed throughout the performance, but later she could not remember doing so, nor could she say whether Junius Brutus Booth had interpreted the character or if the demented monarch’s shade had possessed him. Her heart sank with dismay as she watched him succumb to the flattery of Goneril and Regan, and she ached with regret when Cordelia’s honest simplicity failed to move him. She suffered to witness his mistreatment by his ungrateful eldest daughters, wept at his descent into madness, and shared his grief when he carried Cordelia’s lifeless body from the place of her execution. Afterward, Mary Ann sat motionless in her seat, overwhelmed and spent, as the theatre rang with applause and cheers, as the king, alive once more, bowed to the roaring throng as they showered him in acclaim and flowers.

  Eventually she reclaimed her senses and departed, among the last to leave the gallery. Though she knew her parents expected her home, she found herself joining the crush of eager patrons outside the stage door, longing for another glimpse of their idol. She kept to the outermost fringes of the mob, embarrassed to be there at all, but compelled to remain long enough to see Junius Brutus Booth as himself again, the handsome man she watched in the market.

  A lady squealed as the stage door opened; a few lesser players emerged and were greeted with a smattering of applause. Then a frisson of excitement passed from the front of the crowd to the back, and she saw that Junius Brutus Booth had stepped into the alley. All around her, ladies and men called out his name, waving hats and handkerchiefs, but she felt powerless to speak, to incline her head or bob a curtsey. Perhaps it was her stillness that drew his attention, for suddenly his gaze locked upon hers. She held her breath as he made his way through the crowd, acknowledging well-wishers in passing.

  And then he stood before her. “I’ve seen you before, miss, in the market,” he said, his expression a curious mix of wonder and surprise. “You’re the beautiful flower girl, are you not?”

  She inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment. “I would say that I am, sir, were it not vanity to do so.”

  His laughter, rich and full, brought new warmth to her cheeks. “It isn’t vanity to speak the truth.” His marvelously expressive face was both hopeful and apprehensive, but his voice was nonchalant as he asked, “Did you see the play?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “And what did you think of it?”

  “I think King Lear was created for you, and you for it,” she said frankly, for there was no need to embellish what was demonstrable fact. “You were magnificent. Anyone else who attempts the role henceforth can be only a pretender to your greatness.”

  For a moment he stared at her, curious and silent, but then a great laugh burst from him. “Had Cordelia spoken so eloquently, Lear never would have disinherited her,” he said, elbowing the man beside him, another player whom until that moment Mary Ann had not noticed.

  His friend smiled as his appreciative gaze explored Mary Ann from cap to hem and back again. “But then there would be no play, and the stage would be poorer for it.”

  Those who overheard the exchange applauded their wit, but before the ovation tapered off, the other player made a jest about his desperate need for drink and led Mr. Booth away.

  Mary Ann drifted home in a dream, pressing her hands to her cheeks, to her waist, to her heart, the places Mr. Booth’s words and gaze had reached her. All evening his enchantment remained upon her, like a soft wool cloak upon her shoulders. Noticing her distraction, her father asked if she felt ill, and when she had no appetite her mother checked her forehead for fever and urged her to drink a cup of beef tea. Obediently Mary Ann drank and forced herself to smile and declared that she felt quite restored, wishing she could tell them how her world had been utterly transformed, knowing that her deeply pious parents would never understand.

  The next morning she swiftly filled her basket with the nursery’s freshest blossoms and prettiest nosegays and hurried off to Covent Garden scarcely moments after her bemused father opened his Bow S
treet Market shop for the day. She resolved to linger in front of the theatre for hours if necessary to catch a glimpse of Mr. Booth, but he found her first, startling her by suddenly appearing at her side as she crossed the square. “Do you truly believe my King Lear was magnificent?” he queried, ignoring the perfunctory greetings that custom usually required.

  “I do,” she replied, somewhat breathlessly. “I believed you were the mad king, although I knew you were not. You seemed to disappear within him.” Mr. Booth smiled and seemed to be waiting, so she added, “It was the best performance I’ve ever seen.”

  His smile deepened. “Do you mean of all my other roles, or of all other players in this role?”

  “Of all the performances I’ve ever seen.” Since there was more truth than honesty in her reply, she added abashedly, “I confess there has been only the one.”

  “You’ve been to the theatre only once?”

  She nodded.

  “That can’t be true,” he protested. “That would be a tragedy greater than any the Bard ever writ.”

  She laughed. “Surely not.”

  “How would you know, having seen only one?”

  “I’ve read them,” she countered. He could not know how bold a declaration this was from a girl whose parents forbade any reading material but scripture. Friends lent her novels and books of poetry, which she read secretly at night in her bedchamber by the surreptitious light of a dark lantern.

  “That’s not the same. Master Shakespeare did not write his great tragedies for the page but for the stage.” He regarded her solemnly, his blue eyes shining. “We must remedy this deficit without delay. You must come to the theatre again. Tonight.” When she hesitated, he quickly added, “I insist you attend as my guest, although I regret I won’t be able to sit with you as I’ll be performing. I’ll leave two tickets for you up front—but of course, you must tell me your name, so I may say who will collect them.”

  “I am Miss Holmes,” she said, soft and clear, her eyes locked on his. When his lips curved in a smile, she longed to trace their fullness with her fingertips. “Mary Ann Holmes.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, Miss Holmes.” With that, he bowed and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

  Before the morning passed, Mary Ann had found a friend to accompany her to the theatre and to provide a convincing tale for her parents. She hated to deceive her mother and father, for they were kind and honest and they loved her dearly, but guilt was a small price to pay to behold the greatest young tragedian perform at his personal invitation.

  His performance that night was as enthralling and astonishing as if it were entirely new, and as she and Molly walked home afterward, her friend teased her for being poor company. “You’ve scarcely said a word all evening,” she scolded, linking her arm through Mary Ann’s. “You didn’t watch the play; you stared. You might have blinked once or twice, but I wouldn’t swear to that, although I’m certain your gaze was fixed upon a certain tragedian.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What a handsome couple you would make—both of you dark-haired and blue-eyed, his strong brow, your porcelain skin, his broad shoulders, your slenderness—”

  “Such nonsense!”

  “What would your mother and father think if they knew you were besotted with the great Junius Brutus Booth?”

  “You mustn’t tell them. How did you know?”

  “One glance at your shining eyes was enough.” Molly patted her arm, cheerfully sympathetic. “Of course I won’t tell your parents, but they’ll guess soon enough if you aren’t careful. And so will the object of your admiration.”

  Mary Ann was uncertain whose discovery she dreaded more.

  After that, she saw Mr. Booth nearly every day as she sold flowers on Drury Lane and in Covent Garden. Sometimes he asked her to walk with him, and if she had sold enough flowers to earn a respite, she agreed. If she refused, he usually smiled regretfully and kindly bought flowers from her, bouquets to brighten his dressing room, he explained, or to thank his wardrobe mistress or housekeeper, or to charm a leading lady out of doldrums brought on by poor reviews. Sometimes, though, if he were in a peculiar, choleric mood, his handsome face grew stormy. He would buy every flower in her basket, quickly distribute them to any ladies who happened to be passing, and regard her expectantly as if to say that she had no more reason to refuse. What else could she do then but laugh and take his arm and go walking with him?

  As they strolled, they discussed the poetry of William Shakespeare and Lord Byron, the political philosophies of William Godwin, the latest royal scandal—the newly ascended King George IV refused to recognize his estranged wife, Caroline, as queen consort—and amusing theatre gossip, in particular, the latest thrusts and jabs in Mr. Booth’s ongoing feud with his distinguished rival, Edmund Kean. Perhaps she exaggerated her role in the conversation to say that they discussed such things, for Mary Ann often felt herself overawed by her companion’s breadth of knowledge and contributed little more than astonished gasps and breathless questions. To her relief, Mr. Booth seemed not at all annoyed by her innocence but rather charmed, which warmed her heart and stoked her eager curiosity.

  Often Mr. Booth offered Mary Ann theatre tickets, which she accepted gratefully but sparingly, thrilling to his sublime performances but wary of raising her parents’ suspicions. They would grieve for the state of her soul if they discovered her new passion, but now that she had crossed the threshold of the theatre, she could no longer linger on the streets outside selling flowers, closing her eyes and ears to the wonders within. Sometimes Mr. Booth escorted her to see another company perform, and she thrilled to his touch upon her arm as he sat beside her in a private box.

  And yet she preferred the nights when he took the stage. He was a moving, breathing artistic masterpiece, the very ideal of her favorite poets—Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron—sprung from the page and brought to the fullness of vivid, fiercely passionate life.

  She knew she must heed Molly’s warning to be careful, at least until Mr. Booth made his intentions clear. And if they were honorable, as they surely must be, how could her parents object? Though Mr. Booth was an actor, he was of a higher class than their own, the son of a successful attorney, a gentleman, educated and prosperous. Over the course of many earnest conversations, she had learned that he was not a dutiful Anglican, as her parents would have preferred, nor was he religious in the conventional sense, but he revered God and sought Him in a multiplicity of sacred texts and denominations. He spoke Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Spanish, and had studied French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Arabic. He painted and sculpted, and had traveled throughout England and toured the Continent. Before his tremendous gifts had led him to the stage, he had worked as a law clerk, a printer’s devil, and an assistant in an architecture firm. Eight years before, when he was but sixteen, he had tried to enlist in the navy, only to have his father intervene; Great Britain was at war with the United States, and Richard Booth, a fervent admirer of George Washington, would not allow his only son to risk his life in a conflict with the nation his hero had founded.

  Junius Brutus Booth was handsome and fascinating, and Mary Ann could not resist being drawn to him—and curiously, though she had lived such a small, circumscribed life in comparison, he seemed equally enthralled by her.

  One cool November morning as she peddled flowers near Covent Garden, her heart was light with anticipation despite the heavy fog that dampened her wool shawl and set her thick, black hair curling wildly. Her heart leapt when she saw him approaching, her smile broadening in reflection of his.

  “Let me see,” he said, studying the contents of her basket, his eyes teasing and merry as he pretended to be more interested in her flowers than in her. “I had hoped to find a single perfect English rose.” He looked up, caught her eye, and feigned surprise. “And so I have.”

  “Mr. Booth,” she scolded lightly. �
��You flatter me and insult my flowers. I have many perfect blossoms here, as anyone can see.”

  Before he could reply, the manager of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane emerged from the fog. “Why, Booth,” he exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “Buying more flowers for the missus? No wife has ever been showered in so many bouquets. Aren’t you afraid you’ll drown her and the boy in petals and pollen?”

  Mary Ann felt the blood drain from her face.

  Mr. Booth threw her one stricken glance before replying to his friend, but whether his response was witty or dull, confident or stammering, she could not have said. Her ears rang with the man’s revelation, and she was insensible to any other sound.

  Mr. Booth was married. He had a wife and a son.

  As she absorbed the revelation, he hastily finished his conversation and sent the theatre manager on his way. “Miss Holmes—” he began, but she shook her head fiercely to silence him. She tried to speak, and when she could not find the words, she strode away, instinctively turning toward Bow Street and her father’s flower shop. She did not look back.

  She expected Mr. Booth to have enough shame never to address her again, but to her astonishment, when she set out with her flower basket the next morning, having slept little and wept much, she discovered him pacing on the street a mere two doors down from her father’s shop. “Are you mad?” she demanded before he could speak. “Why would you come here?” She did not wait for an answer but strode off to the market, jostling her basket, heedless of the damage to the bright, fragrant blossoms.

  Mr. Booth hurried after her. “I wish to explain myself.”

  She whirled about to confront him. “Don’t you dare plead innocence. Don’t deny that you showed me attention beyond mere friendship, that you led me to believe you care more deeply for me.”

  “Why would I deny it? Of course I care for you. I love you!”

  The words she had once longed to hear burned like bitterest gall. “You have a wife and a child.”