After the Fire (17 page)

‘Enough!’ The constable was unmoved. Turning to Louise, he made an impatient gesture. ‘Speak!’ he ordered. ‘You’re bound for Newgate whatever happens, but if you don’t admit your crime, I’ll take your mother too!’

‘No.’ Louise stepped forward, her hands at her sides. ‘You will not.’

Her voice was ice cold, and along with the others Betsy regarded the girl in surprise. After a moment, Madame Colporteur moved to a nearby chair and sank down upon it.

‘She knows naught of it!’ Louise looked Gould in the eye, and now Betsy saw a spark of the rage that was within her. At once she was reminded of the look in the eyes of Julius Hill – the Salamander. Here indeed was his creature – his boast had not been idle, for she had continued his terrible work.

‘You’ll have your confession.’ The girl stared at Gould with contempt. ‘I’ve done what I could … what a good daughter should, to avenge her father!’

There came a choking sound, and Louise glanced at her mother, who burst into tears. But instead of going to her, the girl turned back to the others.

‘You didn’t know my father,’ she said, ‘which is your misfortune, for a kinder, gentler man never lived!’

She eyed Betsy, her delicate mouth flattening into a thin line. ‘Of course I burned for revenge,’ she said scornfully. ‘Who would not, who suffered what I did? And when my brother proved unequal to the task, a weakling who drowned himself in drink like the rogues who rampaged through the streets that night, I knew it was my duty to see it done!’ She glanced at her mother, but the old woman had buried her face in her hands.

‘You think you’re quite an intelligencer.’ Louise threw Betsy a bitter look. ‘It took you long enough to come to the nub of things, did it not?’

But Betsy did not flinch from the girl’s hate-filled gaze. For now that she saw the true face of the tiring-maid, she felt little but relief. ‘When did you learn it was Hill who killed Long Ned and Tom Cleeve?’ she asked. ‘Did he make himself known to you, or did—’

‘He had no need!’ Louise almost spat the words. ‘You know nothing of me,’ she said, her mouth curling into a sneer. ‘I’m the one helps you in and out of your clothes, laces your stays, tucks your breasts into your bodice, fetches and carries for you – and you barely notice me! So with the men, who flaunt themselves at me in their undress, vying with each other to see who can make me blush … stinking of drink, their eyes on my neckline, hands at my skirts …’ she broke off, and threw a scathing look at the constables.

‘But he wasn’t like that, was he?’

Betsy spoke calmly. Meeting Louise’s gaze, she went on: ‘Aanaarden – he was different from the others, was he not?’

‘More than you’ll ever know,’ Louise said softly, and for the first time she lowered her eyes. ‘So that I gave him the only precious gift I had, in return for his help.’

The girl’s mother started, gazing at her in horror, then began weeping anew. But Betsy met Catlin’s eye. Of course, Louise had been Hill’s lover: what else had she, but her body, with which to tempt such a man?

‘Jan Aannarden,’ Louise spoke the name with such an accent that she had clearly been taught how to say it. ‘He saw me not for the part I played … compliant little Louise, afraid of her own shadow… the timid girl you thought you knew! He saw me as he was himself: an avenging angel, come to bring justice!’

‘Justice!’ Gould had had enough. Lunging forward, he seized the girl’s arm so sharply she winced in pain. ‘You’ll have your justice, at the end of the hangman’s rope!’ he cried. ‘You and that murdering villain have sent half a dozen men to their graves between you. Avenging angel? Devil, more like!’

There was a moment, before something unexpected happened. Louise had remained still, staring at the constable with a look of defiance. Then her right foot shot out, connecting with the man’s shin. As he grunted with pain, his grip loosened, which was all the girl needed. In a trice she had torn herself free of him and ducked aside, so suddenly that the under-constables were caught off guard. Cursing, one of them grabbed for the girl, but snatched only thin air. Like an eel, she darted between them, head low, and leaped for the stairwell, but Tom Catlin was quicker.

The doctor, who had been watching her intently, had moved a split second after Louise. As she was about to jump down the stairs, he caught her by her waist, his strong arms folding tightly about her. Then she was confined and, despite the writhing and kicking, the spitting and screeching, she was helpless, and she knew it. The constables hurried to take the girl from him, one seizing her legs, another her arms, while the third stumbled forward to take her waist. And clumsily she was transferred, so that at last Catlin was able to step back, somewhat red in the face, and recover his breath.

So at the final turn, Louise Hawker, who was named Louise Colporteur, knew she had lost. Her strength failed, she went limp, and finally slumped to the floor, surrounded absurdly by three burly men, each holding a part of her. Over her stood Gould, furious at how close he had come to losing her. But Betsy’s eye had been caught by Madeleine Colporteur, who had risen from her chair. And as the men turned sharply, the old woman came forward, to peer down at her daughter with a tear-stained face.

The eyes of mother and daughter met, then Madeleine raised her hand and pointed. Betsy followed her outstretched arm, as did the others, to see a black crucifix hanging on the wall. And after crossing herself, in a shaky voice the woman spoke.

‘
Mon dieu … pardonnez-moi, votre pauvre servante … j’ai donné naissance a une meurtrière!
’

Gould looked impatiently to Catlin. ‘What did she say?’

‘She asked God to forgive her,’ the doctor said quietly, ‘for giving birth to a murderess.’

The night of the first of December brought a snowfall that covered London with a mantle of pure white. The day dawned sunny, however, which meant that the lanes would soon turn to slush; but for now Betsy Brand and Jane Rowe, walking down to Dorset Gardens in the morning, could admire the beauty of it. Before them the river sparkled in the sunlight, which was also reflected from the cupola above the Duke’s Theatre.

‘Let’s hope that’s a good sign,’ Jane said, pulling her bertha about her. ‘Not that I’m much of a one for omens,’ she glanced round. ‘Talking of that, it’s quiet without old Palmer shouting at us, is it not?’

‘So it is.’ Betsy thought of the incorrigible ranter, recalling his wild stare. ‘I heard he’d left the suburbs. Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Taken up a new pitch by St Paul’s,’ Jane told her. ‘Do you know they’re going to blow up the ruins with gunpowder, and build it all anew? They’re even talking about a monument, to mark where the Fire started,’ she sighed. ‘With all this rebuilding, I won’t recognize the old place.’

Betsy took her arm, and together they walked to the theatre’s side door. There were many footprints in the churned-up snow, showing that others had arrived ahead of them. But beside the doorway, a newly pasted sign stopped both women in their tracks.

‘
The Forced Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom
.’ Jane read the words out slowly. ‘
A tragicomedy by the celebrated poet, Mistress Aphra Behn
.’ She turned to Betsy.

‘Do you know about this?’

Betsy shook her head. Without further word the two went indoors, to find a scene of cheerful disorder. At first Betsy assumed she had misjudged the time, and come late. But glancing up at the forestage, she saw no actors, only painters working busily on the screens. From behind the stage came the thud of carpenters’ hammers. But here in the pit actors and hirelings were milling about, talking animatedly. Heads turned as the two women entered, though to Betsy many of the faces were unfamiliar. Then a figure emerged from the throng.

‘Mistress Brand, and Mistress Rowe … how delightful!’

Aveline Hale looked radiant in a dress of indigo silk. The skirt was divided to reveal an embroidered underskirt of pale lilac, while the ruffled chemise sleeves were of fine lace. Her hair had been dressed in side-curls, and on her head was a net of little jewels.

To both women’s surprise, Aveline offered her cheek. When they had kissed she stepped back with a smile, which was devoid of mockery. ‘My dears, I’m come only to take farewell of the Duke’s Company,’ she gushed. ‘For I shall not walk upon the stage … ever again!’

Jane threw a glance at Betsy. ‘You mean—’

‘I mean my life has turned in a more … a more fitting direction.’ Mistress Hale looked at Betsy, and tapped her cheek with her small fan. ‘I’ll not elaborate just now – all will become clear!’ And the woman moved off. Betsy turned to Jane with raised eyebrows, but there came a male voice from above her head.

‘Mistress Brand!’

William Daggett was on the forestage, in his shirt sleeves. He hurried to the steps, descended, and came towards her.

‘It cheers me to see you.’ The man’s moustache looked as fearsome as ever, but his smile was warm. Indeed, a deal of strain seemed to have been lifted from him since Betsy had last seen him, poring over the costume of the murdered Joseph Rigg. That was almost a fortnight ago, and it seemed even longer. In the intervening days, Louise Colporteur had been confined in Newgate, then hanged with little ceremony before the prison gate. It was said that a great crowd had gathered to see the event, but that at sight of the prisoner – a slip of a girl in white, wearing a silver crucifix – they fell strangely silent. By the following morning her body had disappeared. The rumour was that Madeleine Colporteur had also vanished, supposedly returning to France.

‘I said, will you come and take a glass with me?’ Daggett was standing before Betsy, who pulled herself out of her reverie. She summoned a smile and nodded.

‘You too, mistress,’ the man said to Jane. ‘There’s a bottle of sack in the scene-room. I’ve told the new men to keep their thieving hands off it.’

‘New men?’ Jane enquired.

‘Will Small won’t be coming back, which is no surprise after what happened,’ Daggett paused, shaking his head. ‘Silas Gunn’s for a quiet life too, he’ll only stay till Christmas. But by then the ones I’ve hired will be fit for their tasks. I’ve set the old man to teach them.’

He gestured to the two women to follow him to the scene-room. Outside, the din of conversation continued.

‘What’s this play,
The Forced Marriage
?’ Jane Rowe asked him as they entered the comparative gloom. ‘No one’s said aught to me.’

Daggett found his bottle, and held out two mugs. ‘Betterton will be here soon,’ he answered as he poured out the sack. ‘And Mistress Mary too. You’d best hear it from them. But I’ll say this: it’s the first time I’ve stage managed a play writ by a woman!’

Jane glanced at Betsy, who was looking thoughtful. ‘I’ve heard of Mistress Behn,’ she said after a moment. ‘They say she’s one of the cleverest women in London.’

Daggett’s moustache twitched sharply. Fixing Betsy with a sober look, he said: ‘Then you and she’ll be well suited, mistress, and that’s no flattery. For it was you, and the good Doctor Catlin, that solved those terrible crimes between you, maybe even delivered us from further catastrophe!’

‘Oh, flap-sauce, Mr Daggett,’ Betsy said, embarrassed. ‘I think you exaggerate.’

‘I don’t.’

Jane was gazing at her. ‘Now it’s become clear who did what.’ She raised her mug. ‘You’ve earned the thanks of us all, Betsy dear. And I for one will make sure everyone knows it!’

So the two women clinked mugs with each other, and with William Daggett. And soon after, the stage manager was called away. They were about to leave the scene-room when there came footsteps from the direction of the Men’s Shift. Turning, they saw a portly figure descending the stairs. Downes the prompter faltered when he saw who was there, then puffed himself up and strode across the bare boards.

‘Are you well, Mistress Brand?’ he asked gruffly. ‘You know you’re to take second billing, after Mistress Betterton?’

‘Am I?’ Betsy raised her eyebrows.

‘So I understand.’ Downes glanced at Jane, who gave him a sly look. ‘You’ll have to mind your manners then, Mr Downes,’ she said with a smile. When the man bristled, she added: ‘Since it seems the playmaker’s a woman too. I’ll bet a crown she’s written a few good roles – for us harpies!’

Downes opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. With a sniff, he moved off and disappeared by the forestage door.

Betsy and Jane looked at each other, and started to laugh: the day seemed to be getting better and better. And having drained their mugs, the two ventured into the pit to mingle with their fellows.

And it was indeed a day of new beginnings, one that enabled those of the Duke’s Company who had lived through the terrible reign of the Salamander – and that of his lover, whom they had known as Louise Hawker – to turn their faces to the future. There were new actors now, hired by Betterton to take roles in
The Forced Marriage
. And with a lighter heart Betsy moved among them, offering greetings and gathering further news as she went. Mistress Behn, now talked of as one of the brightest new playmakers in London, would attend rehearsals, and she had indeed written some fine parts for the actresses. Betterton and his wife would have leading roles, Mistress Mary having been persuaded, with great reluctance, to take to the stage once again. Betsy heard this from Silas Gunn, who emerged from behind the stage to greet her.

‘It’s like a dark cloud has passed, Mistress,’ the old man said, peering at her through rheumy eyes. ‘Tom Cleeve and Josh Small, killed with poisoned pins – not to mention Mr Rigg. And poor Mr Prout stabbed to death – who could’ve imagined such?’ Silas shook his white head. ‘It’s why I got to thinking, while I was sitting at home. I’ve been doing this long enough. I’m for the hop fields in Kent, where I grew up.’ He gazed into the distance for a moment, then smiled.

‘You’ll wish me well, won’t you mistress?’

‘I will, Silas,’ she replied. ‘And I’ll never forget how you were my protector that day, when we walked the length of Turnmill Street and the women mocked you for my
rum cull
.’

Silas searched her face for signs of mockery, but found none. Instead, Betsy startled the old man by taking his face in her hands and planting a kiss on his mouth. Then she walked off, leaving him speechless.

Thomas Betterton and his wife arrived soon after, and the company gathered about them. But it was soon clear that their leading player was not in a festive humour, and in her heart, Betsy was glad of it. For at last she knew that the storm was over, and the company could resume work with renewed strength. She stood near the forefront of the little crowd of actors, more than a score of them, and listened as her old mentor spoke of the tasks that lay ahead. Briskly, he introduced John Downes to the newcomers, and gave instructions as to how the parts for
The Forced Marriage
would be distributed. Betterton and Mistress Mary would play the principal couple, and rehearsals would begin at once. So without further ceremony, the man wished everyone success, and moved aside to speak with his wife. But Betsy was not entirely surprised when Mistress Mary caught her eye, indicating that she should join them.

Then having remembered something, Betterton turned back to the company and raised his hands for another announcement: the King himself, he said, had expressed interest in coming to see the new play!

In a mood of some excitement the actors drifted away, though some, like Betsy and Jane, exchanged wry looks. Betsy followed the Bettertons up the stairs. Together they climbed to a side box, where she was invited to sit.

‘Well, my dear,’ Mary Betterton put on a broad smile, ‘with all the excitement there has been, I confess I’ve not had a moment to speak with you. Perhaps you’ve heard that Mistress Hale is quitting the Duke’s Company?’

‘I have, mistress,’ Betsy answered. ‘And it seems I’m to take second billing to you. I’m most honoured.’

Mary Betterton blinked, seemingly unsure whether or not sarcasm was intended. Quickly her husband changed the subject.

‘Have you heard about Samuel Tripp?’ he asked. ‘It appears the man’s luck has quite deserted him. Of course, it was through no fault of ours that we were unable to play
The Virtuous Bawd
again, and that as a result he never got his benefit night. But what happened thereafter is entirely of his own making!’ The great man paused for dramatic effect, then went on: ‘He was caught in a compromising position in the rooms of a certain Mistress Ann Roose, by St James’s Park. Caught I should add, by a personage known to us all, who deputizes for the Master of the Revels.’

Betsy blinked. ‘You mean, Mistress Roose was Lord Caradoc’s—’

‘Precisely so,’ her mentor nodded. ‘The result of this ill-tempered encounter being that Mr Tripp has wisely taken himself out of London, no doubt to seek an audience for his plays elsewhere. As for Mistress Roose, she was last seen with her maid, the two of them loaded down with baggage and, somewhat tearful, boarding a hackney coach in the Haymarket!’

‘Thomas, that’s quite enough tittle-tattle,’ Mistress Mary said dryly. ‘The matter is,’ she said to Betsy, ‘we both wanted you to know that we are not ungrateful for your efforts these past weeks. You and Doctor Catlin, I should say.’

‘I can claim little of the credit, Mistress,’ Betsy said mildly. ‘Others, like Doctor Catlin’s servant, did much.’

Below, voices and the din of carpenters’ hammers drifted from backstage. In the pit, Downes was conferring importantly with Daggett. But Betsy’s thoughts turned to those who had played a part, unwittingly or otherwise, in the terrible series of events: the villainous Dart, who paid with his life; the slippery Daniels, who had vanished without trace; and Peg, who had looked death in the face alongside Betsy. She glanced up, to see Mary Betterton was rising from her seat.

‘We’ll talk again,’ the actress said shortly. ‘Perhaps when we are called to practise our first scene together.’ And with a nod, she made her way out of the box. As her muffled footsteps descended the stair, Betterton turned to Betsy.

‘She only wants the best for the Duke’s,’ he said somewhat lamely. ‘She always has.’

Only now did Betsy notice the carelines on the man’s face. Of course, she should have realized how the Salamander’s murderous spree must have distressed the man these past weeks. The deaths of Joseph Rigg and James Prout, not to mention Cleeve and Small….

‘
The Forced Marriage
will be a great success,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘I’m certain of it!’

‘It has to be,’ Betterton sighed. ‘Or we are finished.’

He looked away, but Betsy knew how to distract him. ‘Now,’ she said in a businesslike tone, ‘might this be the moment to enquire whether my wages will rise, with my new status?’

The other frowned. ‘Let’s see how well the new play does, shall we?’

‘Second billing!’ Betsy wagged a finger at him. ‘I think I should get twenty-five shillings.’

‘What!’ Betterton’s jaw fell. ‘That’s preposterous!’

‘And Mistress Rowe,’ Betsy went on. ‘Surely she deserves some reward for the loyalty she has shown to the company while the theatre was closed. Many would have taken their skills to Killigrew—’

‘Enough!’ Betterton exploded. ‘You try me to the limits, Mistress Firebrand!’

Betsy smiled. ‘Shall we say twenty shillings, then?’

In spite of himself, her mentor gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘I thank God for my periwig,’ he said. ‘For none can see how you’ve greyed my hair beneath it!’

Whereupon Betsy seized the moment. ‘There’s another matter that’s been troubling me,’ she began, causing the other to blow out his cheeks.

‘Then you’d best broach it now,’ he cried, ‘before I throw myself down the gallery stairs!’

But Betsy was serious. ‘Hannah Cleeve – Tom’s widow – you remember you sent me with money for her. I was wondering—’