A dozen thoughts flew about in Betsy’s head, but one soon took precedence: that still Caradoc wanted more from her. Then it dawned: the man had recently cast his mistress out of her rooms. Was he inviting Betsy to take the woman’s place?
She drew a breath. ‘You’ve given me much to think on, my Lord,’ she said. ‘I ask you to give me time to consider …’
‘Of course,’ Caradoc was smiling again. ‘But I pray you, don’t take too long. The world moves on, Mistress, turn and turn about.’ Suddenly he raised his hand and rubbed at the window with his lace cuff. Following his gaze, Betsy was startled to see a mass of indigo and lilac advancing towards the coach.
She turned to Caradoc. ‘It’s Mistress Hale,’ she began, then broke off. For His Lordship had risen and was throwing open the coach door. The next moment he had jumped to the ground and was taking the hand of Aveline Hale, who smiled broadly at him … and at once Betsy understood.
‘Buffle-head!’ she called herself. Not only had she misread the man’s intentions, but she had failed to guess what was afoot. She got up and alighted from the coach, so hastily she almost slipped over in the snow.
‘Betsy Brand?’ Aveline gazed at her in astonishment. ‘What were you doing in there?’ Then she looked sharply at Caradoc, who was wearing a sickly smile.
‘I had some private theatre business with Mistress Brand, my dear,’ he answered smoothly. ‘We’ll not detain her any longer.’ He turned to Betsy, who read the warning look in his eye. ‘I look forward to watching your performance, mistress,’ he said. ‘Now pray, return to your duties.’
There was an icy moment while Aveline Hale’s eyes bored into Betsy’s. Then with a flounce, the woman turned to Caradoc. ‘Will you drive me to St James’s now, sir?’ she asked coolly. ‘I yearn to see my new rooms.’
Still smiling, Caradoc took her hand and helped her into the coach. And he did not look round, as with a wry smile Betsy walked back into the theatre.
EPILOGUE
A few days later, after the most exhausting rehearsals The Duke’s Company could remember, The Forced Marriage opened to a packed theatre. To the delight of every member of the company, from veterans to newcomers, it was a great success. It ran for six days, enabling the authoress Mistress Behn to garner the rare reward of not one benefit performance, but two. By the sixth and final afternoon there was an air of jubilation both on stage and off, as the Company took their bows to enthusiastic applause. A talented new playmaker – who happened to be female – had arrived. She stood in the wings, a good-looking woman of about thirty years, acknowledging the cheers with a smile. Then, as the orchestra struck up, she moved out of sight to await the visitors who would surge backstage.
For Betsy Brand, weaving through the throng with a cup of claret in her hand, it was a time of relief rather than of euphoria. She had seen enough of Mistress Behn during rehearsals to form a good opinion of her, and to feel sure that the woman’s relationship with the Bettertons boded well. Moreover, she had fashioned a play that poked fun at the custom of arranged marriage – and from a woman’s viewpoint. No bad thing, Betsy mused; and in better heart than she had been for weeks she sought out Jane Rowe, the two of them retiring to a corner. But it was only now, having seen little of her friend since before the performance, that Betsy saw how low in spirits Jane was. And quickly she guessed the reason.
‘I try not to think on him much, as a rule,’ Jane told her. ‘It’s easier here, with all there is to do.’ She gave a sigh, and drained her cup. ‘But now and then it wells up and near knocks me flat. Five months now, Mr Cobus Hall – the rogue who stole my heart easy as he’d swipe an orange – has been clapped up in the Fleet. And he’s no nearer to clearing his debts than he was when he went in!’
‘Think on your new wage,’ Betsy said, taking Jane’s hand. ‘And with mine increased, I could lend you a sum … perhaps Betterton would even advance you a little. Put all that together, and—’
‘And it’d still fall short,’ Jane broke in. She sighed again, letting her eye wander over the noisy press of actors, hangers-on and freeloaders here for the drink. ‘My Cobus never did anything by halves,’ she said. ‘When he won at cards or dice, there’d be a new whisk for me or even a new dress, supper at Lockett’s, and a coach home.’ She sniffed, which was the closest she ever came to tears. ‘And when he lost—’
‘He lost in high style too,’ Betsy finished. She looked away, trying to think how to help her friend. It was never easy to prise someone out of the debtor’s prison, but surely some way could be found? Then all at once she stiffened, as her eyes fell on two new arrivals: Lord Caradoc, with Aveline Hale on his arm, was entering the scene-room. There was a brief lull in the chatter as heads turned, men bowed and women made their curtseys. Aveline’s obvious pleasure in her new status caused more than one smirk before people resumed their conversations. But Betsy had had an idea.
‘I’ll leave you for a while, Jane dear,’ she said. ‘There’s someone I should speak with.’ And quickly she began making her way across the crowded scene-room towards His Lordship. A few minutes later she managed to catch the eye of the man, who was at once alert. He spoke briefly to Aveline, who was enjoying the attention of two or three young actors new to the Company and, leaving her side, moved to join Betsy. But as he drew near, he startled her by bending to her ear.
‘I hope you have an answer for me, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I’m not a man who likes being kept waiting.’
Maintaining a smile, Betsy addressed His Lordship through his immense golden periwig. ‘It’s not a matter to decide on lightly, my Lord,’ she whispered. ‘Yet after further consideration, I believe I may soon be able to reach a decision.’
Caradoc struggled to conceal his annoyance. ‘You mean you still haven’t done so? Why in heaven’s name not?’
‘You press me too hard, sir,’ Betsy countered. ‘There’s much to weigh up. Surely, when you ask a woman to risk her life, she may be permitted a period of reflection?’
‘Oh, very well.’ Caradoc sighed. ‘Take longer if you will, then send word to me. A simple token will serve.’
‘My Lord,’ widening her smile, Betsy seized her chance. ‘First, there’s a matter I must put before you. My dearest friend needs help, and I’m certain you’re the man to provide it. Few others have your skills at diplomacy, not to mention your influence—’
‘Flattery’s a poor tool even in your hands, Mistress Brand,’ the other answered dryly. ‘Come to the point, if you please.’
So quickly Betsy outlined Jane Rowe’s difficulty in a few sentences. When she had finished, she took a draught of claret and waited. But if Caradoc was irritated by the request he managed to conceal it. After a moment he turned to go, giving Betsy a moment’s anxiety, as she knew he intended to. But before leaving, he bent his head to her once more.
‘I’ll promise nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Yet if you’ll take my handling of this matter as proof of my good will, I’ll assume I may in time count upon your gratitude in return. Do we have an understanding?’
‘Of course, my Lord.’ Betsy allowed her gaze to drift towards Aveline Hale, who still held court across the room. ‘And my discretion in your affairs, as always, remains undiminished. How is Lady Arabella, by the way?’
Caradoc’s eyes flicked to Aveline. Then summoning a thin smile he moved away, to be swallowed up in the throng. Whereupon Betsy let out a long breath, and went to tell Jane the good news.
Night was drawing in when she returned home to Fire’s Reach Court. There was a light in the window, and a warm feeling stole over her as she entered the hallway, closing the street door behind her. Tom Catlin’s bag lay by the wall, and there was a promising smell of roast fowl from the kitchen. In the parlour, she found the doctor in his old bombazine coat, reading The London Gazette. He glanced up.
‘I see that in spite of themselves, men of letters approve of Mistress Behn’s play,’ he said. ‘Even the Poet Laureate.’
‘I thought you gave
a fine performance,’ Catlin went on, as Betsy acknowledged the compliment. ‘Assuming it was a performance.’ He frowned. ‘It’s somewhat hard to know these days when you’re acting and when you’re not.’
Betsy looked blank. ‘I wonder what you mean?’
‘I speak not of your recent roles outside the theatre, Mistress Rummager,’ he answered. ‘Merely that you seem to inhabit the part of an indignant young woman so effortlessly, I felt it had been written especially for you.’
‘Well, it wasn’t,’ Betsy told him peevishly, and sat down tiredly. She knew that Catlin had attended the performance at the Duke’s: he had promised to, and he was a man who kept his promises.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed the play,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want you to feel you didn’t get your money’s worth. You could have had a free glass of claret too, if you’d troubled yourself to come to the scene-room afterwards.’
Catlin nodded soberly. ‘I thought it best to accompany Peg home afterwards,’ he replied. ‘She was fretting about the supper. We’ve a couple of good capons, and some anchovies.’
Betsy’s eyebrows went up. ‘Peg came too?’
‘She threatened to burn the supper for the rest of the week, if I didn’t take her,’ Catlin said. ‘What was I to do?’
Now Betsy felt a smile coming on. ‘That’s not much of a threat,’ she observed. ‘More like an average week.’
Too late, she heard footsteps outside. The door flew back and there was Peg, hands on hips, hair sticking out like a poorly thatched roof. It struck Betsy then that Mistress Brazier might forge a career on the stage herself, in comic roles, perhaps.
‘I’d moderate your voice if I were you,’ Peg said acidly, ‘when you insult folk behind their backs. Else they’re likely to take it amiss!’
Catlin cleared his throat. ‘We’ll have supper, I think,’ he said.
Peg sniffed. ‘Burned or raw? I wouldn’t want to disappoint.’
‘Neither,’ Catlin retorted. ‘And those who eavesdrop behind doors hear what they deserve to hear!’
But Peg snapped her head towards Betsy – too late for her to remove her smile. The two women exchanged looks. But this time it was Peg whose face softened.
‘You weren’t bad in that role,’ she said.
‘I thank you,’ Betsy replied. ‘I wouldn’t want to disappoint, either.’
She leaned back in her chair, stifling a yawn. Peg turned and stalked out, her footfalls receding towards the kitchen. Catlin picked up his paper.
The fire crackled, and Betsy found herself staring into it. Then she blinked: for a moment, she fancied that she saw a dark shape in the flames, spotted with livid orange, rising up as if it would leap out on to the hearth. Then gradually it shrank, and finally disappeared altogether.
She turned away, and watched Tom Catlin reading his paper. Then she closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
By the Same Author
The Ruffler’s Child
A Ruinous Wind
The Ramage Hawk
The Mapmaker’s Daughter
The Maiden Bell
The Jingler’s Luck
The Muscovy Chain
Children’s Fiction
Rogues’ Gold
Traitor!
Revenge!
Thief!
Non-fiction
A Survival Guide for Writers
Copyright
© John Pilkington 2010
First published in Great Britain 2010
This edition 2011
ISBN 978 0 7090 9523 1 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9524 8 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9525 5 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9033 5 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of John Pilkington to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
After the Fire Page 21
