The sharp-nosed actress sitting with Peg West was tilting her glass at me, tapping it with her finger. She wanted wine.
‘I’m being called over, Tom,’ I said. ‘But it was nice to meet you. I hope your leg mends soon.’
He favoured me with the sort of sunny smile that I see so rarely in my life. A smile uncomplicated by financial transaction.
I supplied the card-players with refreshment and carried the glasses and tankards over to a woman who had arrived from the Shakespeare tavern next door. The Shakespeare tavern on Russell Street was, I could tell from her manner and her dress, an establishment with a better reputation than its notorious namesake on the piazza. She loaded my tray with fresh supplies and sent me staggering back accompanied by a small lad, who carried a basket of food that was nearly as big as he was. I was embarrassed by my comparative weakness. The capable child directed me to unload the basket on the table at the side of the green room and set out the jugs of wine. He went off to collect the rest of the fare. He was remarkably unbothered by my ineptitude and informed me in the sort of fluty but serious tone that only a child can adopt, that Garrick laid a small dinner for the distinguished members of the audience, who were visiting the green room before the performance. The tavern made two deliveries in the day, an earlier supply of wine, beer and small bites to eat was supplemented later by more exotic fare – and a lot more wine – that would serve for the long interval and the party after the performance.
The green room had now emptied of stage hands who had wanted little beyond beer and bread. As Tom had said, they had gone to prepare the stage and were out of the way.
For now, with nearly two hours still to go before the play began, the company welcomed a few well-dressed gentlemen, who would be in the audience later. These were the men whose good opinion and support Garrick so assiduously sought. A word from one of them in the right ear would turn a play from being acknowledged as a shambles into the last word in dazzling drama – or vice-versa. Over wine and in affable company, Garrick and his players would make sure that these men understood the subtleties of their interpretation in a particular role, or the detail of a line they would later utter. They would flatter the men, intimating that only the cleverest or the most knowledgeable would understand why a phrase was declaimed in the manner they did it – thus ensuring that the information was passed to other discerning gentlemen as being of absolute importance. The fine gentleman, having dispensed his wisdom, would settle back in his chair, confident in his own reputation as a man of the arts, as a serious critic, and think fondly of Garrick and his theatre. He might even come to a play next week.
The actresses, meanwhile, were engaged in different manoeuvres. For a gentleman about town, an actress held a more elusive mystery than a plain and ordinary harlot – although she might perform much the same function as the night wore on. If she flirted with him before the performance began, then he would spend the entire performance in a state of delightful anticipation, knowing that this beauty, who so captivated the whole audience, was his alone once the curtain fell. And who knew what little scenes she might be encouraged to play out with him, once they were alone? He would be happy to pay well.
George Hunter was filling his glass again and laughing loudly at the conversation of his immaculately-attired companion. That gentleman, I gathered, was Mr Astley, his wife’s current lover. Astley was a man in his fifties. His dark green coat was cut and trimmed to perfection, he wore a neat emerald pin at his neck, and he carried his tall frame with elegance. He was not handsome at all. His nose was large and shaped like a beak and it dominated a face that was lacking in animation or interest. He was looking down that nose at Mr Hunter with an expression that suggested that he looked down on everyone.
Regardless of his lack of physical appeal, Astley was a generous patron. Mrs Hunter had done well from his attentions, especially if that gown was anything to go by. Jewels sparkled in her ears and at her throat. But Mr Astley was not generous enough or well-connected enough for Mr Hunter. I could see what Mr Astley could not: Hunter was, all the while, watching his wife, and was only engaging himself so fulsomely with Astley so that she could work her charms on another man. She was sitting with the talked-of Earl of Hawbridge.
I positioned myself next to the door to watch, still holding the tray, lest anyone think that I was not busy. She was rather good: hanging on his words as though they were the wittiest thing she had ever heard, tilting her head in agreement, enabling him to see more of her pretty neck and making a little pout of her lips, so that he might imagine kissing them. All of these arts I have employed myself – although I am never in the position of begging a man to bed me.
But Hawbridge I knew.
I wasn’t certain when Sugden said his name, but, seeing him, I knew him.
He had once, people said, been in possession of a handsome face, round and full of life, with soft cheeks and sparkling eyes. By now, a life committed to excess and dissipation was worn on his features as clearly as if his life’s deeds had been painted on a canvas for all to see. I knew he was the same age as Mr Astley, but he might have been ten years older. His chief attraction lay in his lineage, and because of it, he was a man fully confident in himself and his importance. The Earl of Hawbridge did not need to court attention because attention came to him, courtesy of his title. But his face, with its lines and shadows, told everything. His eyes danced over Lucy’s breasts and shoulders, enjoying what was being offered. Few would know, seeing him at ease in the green room, quite how cruel and violent he could be.
Lord Hawbridge would not remember me, not dressed as Lizzie Blunt. In fact, he didn’t even know Lizzie Hardwicke. Our paths had crossed some years before, when I was still living in my father’s house. When I had been Elizabeth Vessey.
A shiver ran down my back as a memory from my old life returned to me. A man with a fearsome temper, beating his riding whip across the shoulders of our stable lad. A man whose brutality had only been halted by the sight of a girl standing at the stable door, open-mouthed at the fury of the blows and the screams of the boy.
Now he sat with Mrs Hunter, his brows lifting from time to time as he flicked his gaze from her to take in the rest of the room. He was perfectly charming, this old school friend of my father’s, who had been such an amiable presence in our home for a week or two – when he wasn’t trying to beat the life out of poor little Adam Bate.
They were no longer alone. Another man had joined them. He was dressed in the brightest green coat I had ever seen, richly embroidered with purple flowers and decorated with gold braiding. He was much younger than Hawbridge, wide-eyed at the flesh on display and far too ready to chatter and pull faces like a schoolboy. Two more actresses squeezed in to create a companionable circle. I had no doubt that Mrs Hunter thought them a nuisance, but they were unlikely to take away her shine.
Hawbridge pulled a snuff box from his pocket and held it for a moment as he leaned down to pick up his wine glass from the low table. Even from a distance I could see that it was an unusual design. It had the shape of a large scallop shell, but was decorated with white enamelled feathers, each feather delineated in gold, and topped with a greeny-blue eye. Taking a mouthful of wine, he flicked it open, one-handed, with a thumbnail. The effect was marvellous. As the lid sprang up, the feathers rose as a peacock’s tail, displaying to the assembled company. The two actresses even clapped – which was surely what he expected. He glanced over the top of his glass and saw me watching. A slight frown, and then the smallest twitch of a smile crossed his face. I lowered my eyes quickly. I heard the snuff box click shut and glanced up again. His eyes were still on me, even as he engaged politely with his companions.
Chapter Eleven
Molly returned with Mrs Hunter’s gloves, tapping me on the shoulder with them as she breezed into the room.
‘Why are you standing here with a tray?’ she asked. ‘You’re not here to wait on the tables.’
‘Sorry miss,’ I said. ‘Mr Sugden as
ked me to clear a table, and then everyone seemed to want a drink, or some food, or something. And then the boy from the tavern came and brought a basket of things—’
‘I’m teasing you,’ she said. ‘I know what it’s like here. Just don’t let that Joe Sugden have you doing every bloody job. You’re working with me.’ She surveyed the room. ‘Where’s Lucy Hunter?’
‘Over there,’ I said. ‘She’s sitting with the Earl of Hawbridge and a few others. I think he’s already smitten with her. Poor Mr Astley.’
‘Which one’s Hawbridge?’
‘The older one in the pale blue coat.’
Molly’s eyes narrowed as she watched Mrs Hunter. ‘He looks keen enough.’
She strode over to the small gathering and offered Mrs Hunter her gloves. Had she not told me of how much the actress needed her, I would have been shocked that Molly had interrupted the conversation. As it was, Mrs Hunter favoured Molly with a gracious smile before waving her away. One of the other actresses was trying to persuade Lord Hawbridge to open the peacock snuff box again, and, briefly, his eye was on that saucy piece, but Lucy was quick to touch his arm and return his attention to herself. Molly stood, a step away, watching them with a scowl.
Joe Sugden was suddenly at her elbow. I saw him say something to her. She rolled her eyes and followed him out of the door. Mr Dinsdale had come in too, but he went to Garrick and exchanged some words. Garrick jumped up from his seat and, apologising to his companions, left through the same door.
I, curious as ever, exchanged my tray for a jug and wandered over to the actors he had just abandoned, proffering more wine in the hope of finding out what was going on. These were the same men who had been playing with the pistols earlier. The props had been abandoned, lying on the floor, where anyone might trip over them.
‘It’s a death trap, it is.’
‘Good job no one was underneath it.’
My ears pricked. Slowly pouring the wine as they talked, I learned that there had been another incident. The large candle ring above the stage, the girandole, had suddenly dropped one of its candles. The candle had been unlit, and no player had been on the stage, but the sound of a heavy wax column hitting the stage with a bang had caused a furore among the stage hands. They were jumpy. And now the actors were anxious.
‘It’s such a useless piece. Poor workmanship, I say,’ one of them said with a shudder. ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened, Joe Sugden told me. The candle holders are all disintegrating.’
‘Garrick should have a new one made – and soon. I had wax on my coat sleeve last week. It’s not good enough,’ the other agreed. ‘What would have happened if it had fallen during a performance? Or if I’d been underneath it? I don’t want to worry about a candle cracking my head open if I’m in the middle of a speech.’
‘Someone should speak to him about it,’ said the first. ‘When we close after Lear, it really needs to be replaced. We can’t be expected to work like this.’ He took a sip from the wine I’d poured. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here lately. Garrick needs to get his company in order. Damage to costumes and scenery is one thing, but injury to the players is quite another.’
His companion grunted agreement. ‘He was far too casual when that boy fell off the ladder the other night. That letter they found next to him, telling him to leave the theatre: did you hear about it? Perhaps he’ll be more concerned when one of the flats falls on his own head.’
I looked up and saw that Mr Astley had detached himself from George Hunter and gone to sit with Mrs Hunter and Lord Hawbridge. The circle around the earl expanded to accommodate the rejected lover. Lucy Hunter gave him a beautiful smile – the man currently paying for most of what she was wearing – but glanced at her husband. The earl, she would have been told, was the greater prize. I wondered whether she had any affection for Astley? As an actress, she would convince him of her genuine adoration. Gentlemen who keep mistresses like that sort of thing. I could never have a keeper: I could manage to take any man to bed, but his need for regular flattery would kill me.
Astley did not like Hawbridge. There was an awkwardness between them which was possibly due to Lucy Hunter’s behaviour but which, knowing the gentlemen of quality as I do, probably stretched back some years. The young man in green eased himself into the role of amiable mediator, making a small comment to Astley, drawing him into the conversation in a way that Hawbridge was unwilling to do. For a moment, the actresses were minor characters in this play; the men commanding my attention by the energy that crackled between them. They operated by strict rules of conduct. No one would be publicly rude or offensive – on the contrary, they would be faultlessly polite. The actresses, even Mrs Hunter, might not catch the small slights they gave to one another, but from the vantage point of several feet away, I could see it all.
‘Are you going to stand there all night, girl?’
My observations of these softly-spoken gentlemen were interrupted by someone addressing me in harsher tones. It was Mr Dinsdale. Whatever had been going on with the candles, everything was now under control on the stage and he had returned in search of refreshment.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Would you like some wine?’
He didn’t respond but held out his glass. Mr Hunter, standing with him, also held out a glass. He didn’t speak to me either. I was invisible.
‘The girandole?’ Hunter asked Dinsdale, an eyebrow raised.
Dinsdale nodded as he took a gulp of his wine. ‘Same trouble as before. I keep telling him, of course.’
‘Well, if he won’t listen to his stage manager, there may yet be consequences,’ Hunter puffed out his red cheeks. ‘He can’t say he hasn’t been warned.’
Dinsdale said nothing, but his face showed that he agreed.
‘What’s been done?’ Hunter asked, his speech a little slurred.
‘Usual,’ said Dinsdale, with a shrug. ‘We’ve lowered the whole thing and tried to make good the particular candle holder, but it’s fallen apart, just like the rest of them.’
‘These accidents keep happening, don’t they?’ said Hunter, tutting. ‘Perhaps he should leave the theatre before something serious happens. I mean, it’s not a long drop, but if a candle fell on someone’s head, say, it would give them a nasty crack. Knock ‘em out, even.’ He sighed. ‘Or there could be a greater tragedy…’
‘Let’s hope that lovely wife of yours is out of the way if any more candles fall,’ said Dinsdale, in a sneering voice. ‘Wouldn’t want to damage that pretty head.’
‘She’s too busy playing to the audience at the side of the stage to stand underneath the light,’ said Hunter. He looked over at his wife. She was fixing Hawbridge’s cravat, whispering something into his ear and giggling like a little girl over whatever it was he was saying to her in return, while Astley looked on with his mouth fixed in a hard line. Then she turned to her lover and stroked his face with such sweetness that the line disappeared. Astley took her hand and kissed the palm slowly, so that her attention was again with him completely.
‘Isn’t she glorious?’ Hunter breathed.
Dinsdale said nothing. Perhaps, like me, he was wondering how a man could stand and watch his own wife flirt with two other men, both of whom, despite their age, were more attractive in every way than he was. There was something in the way that George Hunter watched her, sighed his admiration, that made me think that he really did care for her. He was working her, certainly, and she was the key to the wealth he craved, but they were, I thought, a team.
Garrick returned. Hunter regarded the manager with disdain. He nudged Dinsdale and they parted, Hunter to the younger actors and Dinsdale in the general direction of the stage. Neither appeared concerned enough to speak with Garrick. It was nearly time for the performance to begin and criticism of the lighting was not wanted now.
Chapter Twelve
Molly was at my elbow. ‘All hands are needed in the dressing rooms,’ she said. ‘They’ll be coming down to dress soon and I want you to hel
p. I’ll take Nan Collyer, who’s like a lamb, and Lucy Hunter, as she can be tricky. You can have Kitty Suckley, if you like.’ She looked around the room. ‘Where is she?’
Miss Suckley had moved to sit next to Mr Astley. Astley, aware that his mistress had been flirting with Lord Hawbridge, decided to turn the tables and was now giving Kitty Suckley his undivided attention.
‘Shit,’ Molly muttered. ‘There’ll be trouble. We’d better keep her away from Mrs Hunter.’
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we need to be moving. Mr Garrick will be sending them down in a minute.’ She pushed me out of the door, not too gently.
In the mending room she gave me my orders. My place was in here, or the dressing rooms when the play was on, I was not to linger in the green room. I was to be ready with my needle to stitch, and stitch quickly, any hem, fringe or cuff that was damaged during the performance. I showed her that my needle box was in my pocket and assured her that I understood the instructions.
The dressing rooms ran along the passageways in two directions from Molly’s room in the corner, the men dressing in one corridor and the women in the other. Separating the men and women had less to do with decency, and more to do with the practicality of sorting their costumes. All of them wandered about half-naked. It was like being at home.
If Lucy Hunter had been bothered by Miss Suckley’s play for Mr Astley, there was no mention of it when she arrived in her room. Instead, everything was about Lord Hawbridge and how he had entertained her so splendidly along with his friend, Mr Callow, who, although not much more than a boy, had been very sweet in his pretty green coat. Mrs Hunter had been delighted by his lordship’s snuff box and gave Molly a spirited account of how it worked.
I left her prattling away while Molly made suitably interested enquiries about his lordship and went next door to fit Kitty Suckley into her gown. The spares shared a larger room and dressed themselves. Kitty, by this time, had arrived in her dressing room and was waiting for me with a mean look in her eye.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 6
