After half an hour of attempting to dress Miss Suckley to her exacting standard, I limped back to Molly, to find her on her knees, surrounded by a pile of clothes. In all my days, I have never known a woman so spiteful as Kitty Suckley. And I live with Emily Greville and Lucy Allingham.
‘How many times did she hit you?’ Molly didn’t even look up as she folded a petticoat into a trunk.
‘I lost count after ten,’ I said. ‘The slaps I can manage; it was the pinching I didn’t care for. She said I had stuck a pin in her. I wish that I had.’
She stood up and looked at me, hands on hips. ‘I don’t know why they have to pinch. They all do it. Even Nan, sometimes. Lucy pulled my hair tonight as well – even after I had calmed her stage fright.’
We stood looking at one another, silently noting our battle scars.
‘I left a piece of apple pie here,’ I said, gesturing to the table. ‘Would you share it with me? I didn’t pinch it, miss, honest,’ I said, seeing her eyes narrow, ‘Mr Fielding’s housekeeper gave it to me.’
She gave me a wry smile, as if she almost believed me.
‘In that case, I would be honoured, you little scrap. The gowns can wait.’
Unless a garment was torn on the stage, and we were called up, we were safely out of the reach of vicious actresses while the play ran on. Molly regaled me with scandalous tales and a few stories that I already knew, about how scenery had been falling over and how her costumes had been savaged.
She had no idea who was behind the accidents but was happy to speculate after a glass or two of wine.
‘It’s got to be someone who knows the theatre,’ she said. ‘Someone who knows where to find flats, or costumes in the first place.’
‘You think it’s one of the players? Or a stage hand?’
‘Not the stage hands,’ she said with some conviction. ‘Joe would know if it was. Everything has to be in good order as far as he’s concerned.’
‘Mr Sugden isn’t troubled by such things?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d get jumpy if furniture and scenery kept breaking. Like there was a ghost, or something.’
She laughed. ‘He gets agitated. He says it looks bad for him if things are broken or stolen, like the discipline among the stage hands is breaking down.’
‘Isn’t Mr Dinsdale in charge?’
‘Overall, yes. But Joe looks after the men and makes sure the orders are carried out. He’s protective of them, thinks they don’t get a fair deal from Garrick when they work just as hard as the players. But if he thinks any of them is damaging the stage… well, I wouldn’t want to be in that man’s shoes if Joe Sugden’s in a fury.’
I went outside to relieve myself, wishing that I hadn’t drunk so much wine with Molly. Members of the audience find relief in the tavern yards during the intervals, but the area around Drury Lane is adequately supplied with dark passages, if you’re not fussy. I do not like pissing in a busy street, but I wasn’t dressed to be fussy and I didn’t have time to dodge the cat-calls and groping hands of a tavern. I found a cart at the side of the street, pulled up hard against a lodging house, and ducked behind it for privacy, finding nothing in the small gap between the cart and the wall but a skinny dog. He soon moved.
The rooms in the lodging houses above were bright enough, and showed signs of life and activity, but the passageways below, although full of people, were not well-lit, so I hurried back as quickly as I could, past the hard-faced, half-dressed whores, and the pimps and bawds lurking in doorways. I was grateful to see the theatre ahead of me, a welcoming brazier burning by the back door, grateful too that no one had bothered me out in the squalid and noisy streets.
The dressing room passage was better lit with candles now that the play was underway, but it was empty. Any actors not on stage were probably in the green room. A man emerged from a doorway, bumping my shoulder and causing me to stagger. He did not apologise; indeed, he turned to scowl with indignation at the girl his way, the light from a wall sconce making his face glow.
It was Lord Hawbridge. Presumably he had come down to find Mrs Hunter.
The scowl faded; there was recognition in his eyes.
‘You were in the green room earlier,’ he said. The voice drawled, thick with wine.
I nodded. It had not been a question.
‘Are you lost, my Lord?’ I asked, rubbing my arm. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
‘Perhaps I came to find you.’ There was a hint of mockery. ‘I know you.’
Did he know me? Had he recognised me as Edward Vessey’s daughter? I shrank into the shadow, unwilling to let any light fall on my face, just in case.
‘I don’t think so, my Lord. I don’t think you know me.’
He touched my cheek and I flinched.
‘The innocent act doesn’t fool me, y’know,’ he said. ‘You’re surrounded by players here – better ones than you. But I can see what you are.’ He stepped closer, so that I could now smell the wine on his breath. ‘You were flirting with me, little cat, flashing your eyes at me. Don’t deny it.’
I did deny it. I denied it most sincerely, but he didn’t seem concerned by my response. Instead I found myself shoved up against the wall as he began to kiss me, laughing into my mouth when I tried to move away.
Eventually, he pulled his mouth off mine. I wiped his saliva from my lips, aware that he still had his hands on me.
‘I need to be back at work,’ I said, breathing hard and hoping that the kiss was enough for him.
It wasn’t.
I was dragged through the door from which he had just emerged. It was the mending room. Molly was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone in search of more food or wine. He kicked the door shut behind him and backed me to the edge of the table; the little plate that had lately held my apple pie shunted along with a clatter. He was blocking my escape.
‘You know what I want?’
It wasn’t difficult to guess.
The circle of his fingers tightened on my wrist and I heard him grunt as he unbuttoned his breeches with his free hand.
‘Lift your skirts.’ The order was abrupt.
I was about to obey and get it over with quickly. But I did not want to. I did not want this. No one would hear me if I screamed. I could not fight him off – he was strong, and I was pressed against a table – but I still had my wits. I could take a gamble.
I hesitated.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Annoyed by my reluctance, and ready to take what he wanted, he began to pull up my skirts himself. I pushed his hands away and took a breath.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord, it’s… I don’t think I’m clean.’
‘What?’ He continued to press against me, even with this interruption, his breath hot against my neck.
‘I’m not clean, sir.’
Now he stopped.
Holding my skirts in one hand he grabbed my chin with the other, forcing me to look him in the eye. ‘Not clean? What? Are you telling me you’ve got the clap?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir. And I wouldn’t want to curse you with it.’ I said in a whine. ‘Or your lady. It itches and stings so badly.’
At the mention of his wife, he bristled. Whatever ardour had been driving him a moment ago, the thought of a nasty disease deflated him. I imagined he’d experienced it before.
I might have been lying. I was lying. But he didn’t want to risk it.
Thwarted, exposed and breeches still undone, his expression turned to anger. I was not quick enough. He grabbed the hair at the back of my head, pulled me away from the table and threw me hard at the wall, banging my shoulder. My forehead cracked against a shelf, and I yelped at the pain as I crashed to the ground.
‘Wasp!’ He spat the word. ‘You’re a fucking wasp.’
A whore with a sting in her tail.
I was dangerously close to his feet. He was furious, and I had seen him enraged once before. I remembered what had happened to our stable boy and drew myself into a ball, arms around my head, bracing myself fo
r when he kicked me, knowing it was inevitable, trying not to cry out, and now cursing my utter stupidity.
I saw him take aim and squealed in fright despite my intentions.
The door was flung open.
‘Lizzie, you’re needed in the green room. There’s an emergency. Mr Garrick has torn a cuff.’ It was Tom Firmin, crutch tucked under his arm.
He checked his step as he caught sight of Lord Hawbridge. The two men froze, neither fully knowing how to address the situation he encountered.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord,’ Tom began. ‘I didn’t realise you were in here…’ his voice fell away as he saw me on the floor. I prayed that he would not back out of the door.
I scrambled to my feet as fast as the pain and terror would allow. ‘Does he want Molly?’ The words came out in an undignified half-shriek. ‘If it’s Mr Garrick, I mean? I don’t know where she is, if it’s Molly he needs.’
He shook his head, eyeing Hawbridge who was calmly rebuttoning himself. ‘No, no, you’ll do. It’s just a cuff. Molly’s up on the girandole, helping Joe. She told me to find you.’
I tugged the needle box from my pocket, hands trembling, and brandished it like a trophy. ‘I’m ready to come now. Look, I’m ready.’
Hawbridge had enough grace to know he had been beaten. He pulled a face and stood aside to let me pass. As I moved to the door, though, he grabbed my arm, yanking me towards him, and put his mouth to my ear.
‘We’ll forget this misunderstanding, won’t we, Lizzie.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
His hand tightened, hurting me.
‘Any word from you, and I’ll have you whipped, as well as thrown on to the street – where you so obviously belong.’
He dropped me. I gave a small curtesy, then lurched towards Tom.
‘Let’s go, Tom,’ I said, pushing past him and nearly falling into the corridor.
I ran as fast as my shaking legs would carry me, Tom limping on his crutch behind me.
‘You all right, Lizzie? Did he hurt you?’ he panted, struggling to keep up.
I shook my head, anxious to get away from Hawbridge and into the safety of the green room. He had hurt me, in truth. My shoulder was throbbing, as was my head.
‘No, but I’m very glad you came in when you did.’ I cleared my throat, trying not to cry, keen to change the subject. ‘What’s Molly doing?’
‘Not sure’, he said. ‘I think she’s replacing the candles on the main lights.’
I thought about the conversations I’d overheard; about the candles falling out of the disintegrating holders. It was a delicate and important task, making sure that candles were secure. I slowed my pace and let him catch up.
‘That’s Molly’s job?’
‘It is when I’m injured. The big girandole over the stage can be lowered by a rope, of course, but Garrick doesn’t like it done during a performance. He’s not prepared to shell out for better candles, so some of them burn down too quickly and need to be replaced.’
I still couldn’t see it. ‘So what does Molly do? Or what do you do?’
‘The thing hangs on a ring fixed to a beam. There are several beams across the stage, some of the scenery, or the effects, are hung on hooks or rings in the beams. The girandole is raised, rather than lowered, then she climbs across a beam, leans out and changes the candles, before it’s lowered again.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
He laughed. ‘For most of us. I hate it. But Molly was a rope-walker. She has no fear of heights. She says that walking the beam is child’s play compared with a rope. And she gets a few coins from the gentlemen sitting on the stage who watch her – not that the players appreciate that.’
‘Ha! I can imagine.’ No wonder Lucy Hunter was so spiteful. Molly was causing heads to turn and collecting up coins for her fairground trick, even as she struggled with her soliloquies.
Tom caught my arm as we reached the green room door.
‘Are you sure he didn’t hurt you, Lizzie?’
I gave him a practised smile, ignoring the pain in my face and shoulder.
‘I’m not hurt, Tom. There’s no harm done.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘It’s come off at the underside of the cuff. Again.’ Mr David Garrick, the finest actor of our generation and manager of, arguably, the finest theatre in the world, was waving an arm at my face, a lace flounce flapping and dangling from the end of his shirt sleeve.
‘It might help me, sir, if you could keep still, so I can see it,’ I said, becoming dizzy as I tried to focus, pain still coursing through my shoulder.
‘Yes, yes, yes. Look at it.’ He shook it at my nose again.
I grabbed his wrist – which he was not expecting – and gave him a severe stare. He, surprised by this, gave in and stood still.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The lace had been stitched several times over. The stitching was not poor, but the edge of the lawn shirt that held it was fraying.
‘I can tack it on for now, if you wish, but the whole sleeve needs to be repaired. See how the cuff has become worn.’
He peered down at his wrist, still firmly locked in my hand.
He gave a very loud sigh, as if this were the most tiresome experience of his life. ‘Oh, do what you can, please. And be quick about it. I have people to see.’
He condescended to sit, and even to pull his arm out of the sleeve, allowing me to sew as swiftly as I could. All the time, he held court with gentlemen who sought his advice, his opinion, even his blessing on matters of the day. I wondered how he managed to compose his wits to return to the play in character, he was so busy being himself.
The long interval had just begun, and the green room, filling with players and gentlemen from the audience, was already foggy with tobacco smoke. Even so, through the haze, I could see Peg West sitting on someone’s knee, encouraging him to kiss her neck and fondle her splendid bosom which had released itself from her gown. Another of the spares sat idly stroking a man’s thigh as he chatted to her friend. The lower orders of actors and audience members mingled comfortably with the noble and important; anyone who was a friend of Garrick, or a friend to the theatre was welcome. If they brought patronage, publicity or even notoriety, so much the better.
‘My Lord!’ Garrick jerked his arm away from my needle, leaving a thread dangling. He stood to greet Lord Hawbridge, who had, by now, made his way back to the green room. ‘How delightful to see you. Are you enjoying our little play? How is Lady Hawbridge?’ This volley of questions was accompanied by much hand shaking. Lord Hawbridge, I surmised, would be a very useful friend to Garrick’s theatre, and Garrick was far more concerned to engage him in conversation than to have his cuff repaired. He was, even now, pushing his arm back through his sleeve. I put my needle away and shrank into my seat, avoiding Hawbridge’s eye.
‘Garrick, come and join us.’ Hawbridge’s voice was smooth. ‘You know my dear friend Astley, of course. He’s always here mooning after Mrs Hunter. Do you know Mr Callow? A family friend of my wife’s…’ He steered Garrick away.
Ketch took Garrick’s place as I was rolling up my thread and nodded towards the earl.
‘Magnificent fellow, isn’t he? Garrick loves it when the quality arrives.’
I said nothing. Magnificent wasn’t the word I would use for the Earl of Hawbridge.
‘Lucy Hunter has her work cut out if she wants to claim that prize,’ he chuckled.
Lucy Hunter would need a suit of armour to survive.
I watched Garrick play the generous host to Lord Hawbridge and his guests, calling for more wine, and hurrying one of the spare horses to find some. All the time, he was mirroring the gestures of these fine men. This was subtle. They wouldn’t have noticed, but he was, even amid the laughter and fuss, calmly and deliberately making them feel comfortable without fawning over them.
I can spot a whore at fifty paces. He was after money.
There was a commotion near the door. Someone was shouting and pu
shing his way in. A man, waving a handful of papers, red in the face.
‘Simmot,’ said Ketch. ‘Now there’ll be trouble.’
He was short, pudgy-faced and dressed in an over-decorated rose-coloured coat that was too gorgeous for him. His cherubic face suggested youth, so that he looked like a school boy who had dressed up in his father’s best clothes. A boy without manners or finesse.
The people in the green room largely ignored him. Molly, fresh from her climb over the stage beams, eased past him, rolling down her sleeves. Joe Sugden was with her. I waved to Molly.
‘William Simmot,’ said Sugden with a grimace as he sat down. ‘That’s all we need.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked Molly.
‘A writer. He keeps calling with his plays. He’s here most nights, asking Mr Garrick to look at them, but Mr Garrick doesn’t want to be bothered.’
Sugden snorted. ‘That’s what Simmot says, when he’s shouting like this. Garrick has read his plays, Mr Dinsdale says so. Garrick calls him a talentless hack.’
‘Mr Garrick is overlooking his undoubted talent,’ said Ketch. ‘It’s what he tells everyone. Anyone who’ll listen.’
‘Aye,’ said Sugden. He pulled a face. ‘I’m no expert in plays, but I’ve been in this theatre long enough to know that Garrick understands what the public wants to see.’
‘And what he thinks they ought to see,’ said Molly, making a grab for a pot of beer. ‘He’s not fond of the dancers and tumblers, and the people want to see those – along with their Shakespeare and farces.’ She put a hand out to the monkey, who climbed down from Ketch’s head and on to her forearm.
‘What sort of plays does Mr Simmot write?’ I asked.
Sugden shook his head. ‘No idea. But Garrick can’t have anything political, so maybe he writes those sorts.’
Satire was frowned upon, I knew that. Anything too critical of the government could lose a theatre its precious licence. From where I sat, Mr Simmot did not look like a man sharp-witted enough to write anything too dangerous.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 7
