After the Fire (6 page)

She turned the corner, and the familiar night-time sounds of Covent Garden assailed her. Traders called from their stalls, gallants in garish coats and long periwigs strutted about talking loudly, while from the Rose Tavern came laughter and voices raised in song. Here and there
bona fide
members of the street-walking profession plied her trade, accosting first one man and then another. Quickly, Betsy turned left and walked along Little Russell Street towards the Piazza, and at once the broad, lantern-lit square opened out before her, thronged with people.

On the left-hand corner by the Little Piazza was her destination: a large house which had known many uses and many owners, before Robert Jenkins turned it into his famous bathhouse, the
hammam
: a men’s haunt like the Coffee-houses, but one where certain women were admitted as required. In fact, a man with shillings to spend could get anything in the bagnio: not merely a steam bath, but food and drink, a bed for the night, and someone of either sex to share it with. At the entrance a broad-shouldered doorman stood, and now Betsy drew a deep breath: she was on.

‘Well, my duck,’ as the fellow turned to her, she addressed him in an accent that hailed from somewhere east of Limehouse. ‘Are you letting me in, or what?’

The man frowned. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Mary Peach. I’ve got business with a gent within.’

‘Peach? Never heard of you,’ the other snapped. He was a heavy-browed man with a pocked face. ‘I don’t care to admit one I don’t know … you could be a fireship.’

‘I don’t know you, neither,’ Betsy told him, ‘but I’ll live with it.’ She scowled. ‘And I ain’t a fireship, fustilugs – I’m clean as silver!’

The man hesitated, and a hint of a smile appeared. ‘So what’s it worth to let you take your goods to market?’ he asked, his eyes straying downwards to her cleavage.

‘What would you want?’ Betsy countered.

‘What d’you think?’

She appeared to consider the matter. ‘When are you free?’

‘Any time you like,’ the man answered, his smile broadening. ‘I can soon get someone to take my place.’

‘All right,’ Betsy said. ‘I’ll be out in an hour – wait for me.’ Still grinning, the fellow stepped aside; and with a brazen step, she entered the bagnio.

At first she could see little, for the place was dimly lit. Then she felt a blast of warm, humid air and, glimpsing a doorway ahead, stepped into a room which she guessed to be the
tepidarium
. There were low voices, and figures wrapped in linen sheets were visible, moving to and fro. In a far corner somebody was playing a lute. She moved slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom – whereupon, close by, a voice she knew stopped her in her tracks.

‘Looking for someone?’

Betsy swung round to see none other than James Prout, the dancing-master of the Duke’s Theatre, lounging on a wooden bench. He was bare-chested, the lower half of his body concealed by a white robe. Beside him sat another man, younger, and a deal more handsome. The two men’s arms were linked and, as Betsy looked quickly from one to the other, both of them laughed.

‘No need to look crestfallen, Miss,’ the young one said. ‘There’s others within will be glad to see you.’

For a moment Betsy thought of revealing herself to Prout, then swiftly rejected the idea. She had arrived incognito and would remain so. And a little thrill of satisfaction ran through her that even the dancing-master did not recognize her.

‘I ain’t been here before,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a friend … used to work at the old Duke’s Theatre in Portugal Row. Know him, do you? Brown fellow, name of Long Ned.’

There was a pause before Prout blew out his cheeks and looked away. Only now did Betsy realize that he was rather drunk. But the younger man was alert.

‘Heavens, girl, haven’t you heard? The poor man’s dead, three days since. Expired in there.’ He pointed to an inner doorway. From within came a hissing, as of water being poured on to hot coals.

‘Dead?’ Betsy’s mouth fell open. ‘He can’t be!’

The other nodded. ‘It was very sudden. He was stricken with a seizure of some sort.’ He indicated Prout. ‘My friend here was close by when it happened, weren’t you, old fellow?’

Prout peered up at Betsy with bleary eyes. ‘I didn’t see it,’ he said. ‘Hill did,’ he frowned. ‘What are you staring at? You’d best ask within.’ He waved a hand irritably towards the steam room.

But in her new role as Mary Peach, Betsy was emboldened. Here was an opportunity, and she would not waste it. She faced Prout’s young friend again.

‘Where’ve they took his poor body, sir?’ she whined. ‘For I’d dearly like to look upon him again, and say my farewell.’

The man shrugged, but just then Prout lurched to his feet. ‘Time for my sweat,’ he muttered. ‘Are you coming?’

The other got up, and put an arm about Prout’s shoulder. But thinking fast, Betsy stayed both men.

‘Wait, masters,’ she said. ‘For I’ll confess to you I was worried about Ned. That’s why I’ve come, see. He was uneasy when I saw him last … looking behind, like someone was after him. D’you know aught of it?’

Prout was frowning at her, and it was a surprise to Betsy to see how different the man’s manner was here. His habitual good humour and talkativeness seemed absent. But the other man spoke up.

‘If that’s true, he hid it well,’ he answered, ‘for I saw no sign of a nervousness on his part.’ He thought for a moment. ‘One thing I know was that Ned was working every hour of the day for his passage money. He was burning to leave England … for the tropics I’d wager, whence he came.’ He put on a wry smile. ‘It’s a sad tale is it not, for he would have succeeded in time. It’s easy to turn a shilling in here, even a sovereign come to that. But I’ve no need to tell
you
, have I?’

Then he turned, for Prout was tugging at his arm. Without another glance at Betsy both men moved off, to be swallowed up by clouds of steam.

Betsy sighed. It looked now as if her notion of wandering about the bagnio asking questions was foolish, if not dangerous; and all she had learned was that Long Ned was trying to save enough money to leave England.

She turned about and left the bagnio. But only when she stepped out into the cool night air did she remember the doorman. She looked round sharply, as the fellow moved forward to block her way. ‘That was quick,’ he said in a suspicious voice. ‘I thought you said you’d be out in an hour.’

But Betsy drew a breath – then reached up and tugged off her golden wig. With the other hand she fumbled in her pockets. As the doorman’s jaw dropped, she said in an imperious voice: ‘Enough play-acting, for I’m bored with it. I’m Lady Theodora Knightley, fellow, and I require a chair to take me home. Find one, and there’s a shilling for you!’

The man stared, then his expression changed in an instant. ‘Course, your ladyship … right away,’ and he made a clumsy bow and hurried off towards the Piazza. He did not see Betsy walk smartly off to Little Russell Street and round the corner. Only when she had turned into Brydges Street again did she relax. And at last her spirits flagged, for it seemed that her first foray as
Mistress Rummager
had proved fruitless.

The following morning, Betsy awoke from a troubled sleep with the realization that Peg had failed to rouse her. Stumbling downstairs, she found Catlin’s servant on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. As Betsy entered, Peg looked up grumpily.

‘The Doc told me I shouldn’t disturb you,’ she said. ‘Reckoned you’d be worn out after traipsing round Covent Garden. Profitable, was it?’

‘Not especially.’ Betsy stifled a yawn, she sat down at the well-scrubbed table and poured herself a cup of milk. She had a vague notion of seeking out Julius Hill to ask him further about the death of Ned Gowden, since he had been one of those close to the man when he died. Or perhaps she would visit Jane Rowe.

‘You look like I feared you would, after the theatre was closed,’ Peg said, sitting up. ‘Nothing to do but mope about. You need to watch that, or you’ll end up with the mulligrubs.’

‘I’ve plenty to occupy myself,’ Betsy told her. ‘Then I wouldn’t be working anyway as it’s Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘You’ve no cause to rail at me,’ Peg replied. ‘Especially since I’ve got news that’ll cheer you. A boy came an hour since with a message: you’re invited to supper.’

Betsy raised her eyebrows. ‘Invited, by whom?’

‘Lord Caradoc, at his mansion. Bread, or something—’

‘Bredon House,’ Betsy gazed at her in surprise. ‘Are you sure that’s right?’

‘Course I’m sure,’ Peg retorted. ‘The boy said he was sent by Mr Betterton, to tell you there’s a supper in honour of someone. You’re to go to Betterton’s house at six, and ride with him in a coach.’ She put on her most scathing look. ‘Aren’t we the grand lady? Dining with Lords. Who’s next, the King?’

But Betsy ignored her. She was already wondering what to wear.

The reason for her being invited to Lord Caradoc’s grand house, however, was less flattering than she had first imagined. She discovered that soon after arriving at Betterton’s in her farandine chemise, with a full lace bertha and her silver-grey velvet cloak. This time it was Mistress Mary who received her, and showed her into the parlour.

‘Thomas is dressing, and will be down presently,’ she said. ‘So I thought to appraise you of the situation.’

Betsy had always respected Mary Betterton, the former Mistress Saunderson, one of the first female actors in London. Tutored by Betterton himself, she had pleased him so well he ended up marrying her. An attractive woman with fine auburn hair, she had retained her dignity, and served as an example to the younger actresses like Betsy who followed her on to the stage. It was some time before Betsy realized there was a steely hardness beneath Mistress Mary’s charm that was directed at furthering her husband’s career above all else. Nowadays she rarely acted, but was an accomplished hostess. She fixed Betsy with a smile, while she delivered her news.

‘You are to partner Mr Tripp.’

‘Tripp!’ Betsy’s face fell. ‘Must I?’

‘Listen, Betsy,’ Mrs Betterton’s smile did not waver, ‘this supper has been arranged in haste for all our benefits. It will require considerable diplomacy, for it has but one purpose: to placate Alderman Blake, who will be the honoured guest. Yesterday, as you know, Blake made it clear he would petition the Lord Chamberlain to have the Duke’s shut down. Lord Caradoc, who merely deputises for the Master of the Revels, may find himself over-ruled, and so Blake may get his way. A disaster for us all, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

All at once, Betsy had an inkling of what was coming.

‘So,’ Mary continued, ‘his Lordship proposes to use his charm – a considerable weapon as you know – to win the Alderman over. We are invited to add weight to his arguments, as well as smoothing over the rift that exists between the Duke’s Company and the Alderman. Mr Tripp—’ she hesitated, and Betsy spoke up.

‘Mr Tripp, famous for his wit, is there to flatter the Alderman into letting us reopen, so that we may put on his new play.’ When Mary made no reply, she added: ‘And so … am I to be placed beside the Alderman while he grows tipsy, and grant him an unobstructed view down my front? Or did you have something further in mind?’

Mary’s smile faded. ‘Is your opinion of Thomas so low,’ she asked sharply, ‘that you imagine he would act as pander, and serve you up on a plate?’ When Betsy did not answer, the woman went on: ‘It was Mr Tripp’s idea that you accompany him. He’s an unmarried man, of course – you will not be left alone with him. Nor with the Alderman, for that matter, who is a widower. But besides, both his Lordship and Thomas think it prudent that you join the party. You are educated, and can help our case. If you wish, we will take you home afterwards, thus ensuring that whatever hopes Tripp may have in regard to your person, he’ll be disappointed. Does that satisfy you?’

But Betsy did not voice her thoughts: that it was not Tripp she was wary of, so much as Lord Caradoc. Then, surely even His Lordship would not flirt with her in front of his wife?

‘I take it Lady Arabella will be present?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Mistress Betterton cocked her head at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. ‘So, for the good of the Duke’s Theatre,’ she went on briskly, ‘can we count on you?’

After a moment Betsy nodded, wondering why she had been foolish enough to think there might be another reason for her being invited. Avoiding the woman’s eye, she turned to greet Betterton as he strode in, dressed in a fine camelotte suit.

But had she known what the evening would bring, she reflected later, she would have been sorry to miss it.

The mansion of Charles Langdon, Lord Caradoc, was in Piccadilly between Clarendon House and Berkeley House. Here also resided his Lordship’s wife, the formidable Lady Arabella, as well as his children (one son was at Oxford) and numerous servants. Less well known was the proximity of his mistress, who had her own modest set of rooms across St James’s Park by the Spring Garden. As the coach Betterton had hired for the evening rattled through the imposing gates of Bredon House, Betsy gazed at the great building, its entire frontage lit by torches. She glimpsed a knot garden, trees shaped into cones, and water gushing from a statue of some mythical beast. The coachman heaved at the reins, the vehicle halted on a drive of washed gravel, and a liveried footman hurried out to open the door. Descending from the coach, Betsy made an effort to appear unimpressed, though the manifestation of such wealth subdued her. It occurred to her that his Lordship might intend it to weaken her resolve, so that the next time he contrived to catch her alone, she should bend to his will. In silence she followed Thomas and Mary Betterton through the front entrance, into a hall ablaze with light.

The meal was more than a mere supper; it was to be an entertainment. Caradoc had left little to chance, either in the richness of his dishes or his selection of wines. As the guests took their seats in the candlelit dining-room with its gilt-framed pictures and finely carved furniture, a trio of spinet, bass viol and fiddle began to play. Betsy had to hide a smile when they struck up one of the pieces from
Macbeth
.

But she had little opportunity to admire her glittering surroundings, for no sooner had she entered the room than Samuel Tripp, in a burgundy suit and a new black periwig, appeared at her elbow. Thereafter he rarely left her side, and Betsy was correct in her prediction when she found herself at one end of the table with Tripp on her left, and Alderman Blake, in the guest of honour’s seat at the table’s head, at a right angle to her. So she had no choice but to maintain polite conversation first with Tripp, who was the picture of attentiveness, and then with Blake who, as the evening wore on, began to turn his sharp little eyes in her direction.

The Alderman’s very presence surprised Betsy. As a man of Puritan disposition, and very conscious of his office, she expected him to despise the richness of these surroundings and to regard his hosts as frivolous people. This description might have fitted the Lady Arabella, who had evidently been at her closet for hours. She wore a voluminous, low-cut, flowered gown, parted to reveal a bright yellow underskirt. Her red hair was newly dressed, the false side-locks standing out like branches on either side of her whited cheeks, on which were stuck tiny heart-shaped patches of black silk. Betsy, in her pale-blue farandine, felt almost dowdy.

As the meal progressed, however, she began to modify her opinion of Alderman Blake. At first he ignored her and conversed with Lady Arabella, whose musical voice, even Betsy would have admitted, could soften the hardest of hearts. But as the wine flowed and glasses were refilled by Caradoc’s attentive servants, the Alderman showed himself to be a man of wider knowledge than Betsy expected. And eventually, somewhat red in the face, he began to converse with her.

‘Mistress Brand, I confess myself taken aback to learn who your father is.’ When Betsy looked up from her plate of stewed carp, he added: ‘Is he not the same Mr William Brand who was assistant to the King’s Surveyor-General?’

‘
Was
is correct, sir,’ she answered. ‘My father lost his place some years ago. He’s now a bookseller in the New Exchange.’

She lowered her eyes; she did not want to speak of her family, especially her father, an embittered man who had lost everything in the Great Fire. But she soon discovered that the Alderman’s thoughts ran on a different track.

‘Yet he was a man of substance,’ Blake persisted. ‘Hence my surprise, to learn that he permits his daughter to go upon the stage.’

‘My father’s views on my profession are indeed old-fashioned, sir,’ Betsy replied. ‘Yet even he can see that as a result of it I’m able to keep myself in comfort, and not rely on him for my bed and board.’

‘Capital. Keep it up, and mention
bed
as often as you can.’ Betsy gulped, for Tripp had whispered in her left ear, while apparently listening with rapt attention to Lady Arabella’s court gossip. Further along the table, Betterton and his wife were paying equal attention to Lord Caradoc’s tales of the King’s exploits at Newmarket.

The Alderman took a pull from his glass and set it down rather clumsily. ‘Bed and board should be the least of a gentleman’s concerns,’ he answered with an attempt at severity, though his eyes strayed towards Betsy’s ample bosom. ‘When his daughter’s honour is at stake, that is. Surely you intend to marry at some future date? More, you expect to marry well.’

‘I seldom give the matter much thought, sir,’ Betsy answered, retaining a polite smile. ‘My work is so absorbing I have little time for anything else.’

The Alderman cleared his throat, but was then diverted by the Lady Arabella, who turned from Samuel Tripp to point out a dish that Blake had apparently missed.

‘Do take some lobster, Alderman,’ she urged. ‘It’s most rare at the moment.’

Blake blew out his red cheeks, and his eyes scanned the well-laden table. It was indeed a feast: savouries, fish and meat dishes vied for attention along with tarts, salads and sauces. Finally the man nodded and turned to his hostess.

‘I’ll bow to your advice, ma’am,’ he said, ‘once I’ve despatched this turbot.’ He lifted his glass again and stuck his nose in it. ‘And I must allow, your Navarre is splendid.’

Lady Arabella acknowledged the compliment gracefully. Betsy returned her attention to her plate, trying to ignore Tripp as he breathed in her ear once again.

‘See how the old fool slavers,’ he whispered. ‘Yet I’ll lay a sovereign the cause is his proximity to your body, and not the lobster.’ The playmaker made a show of taking up his glass and studying it. Then he bent forward and whispered again. ‘Ride home with me tonight. You’ll sleep between silk sheets, breakfast on oysters.’

And then it was all Betsy could do not to yelp. Tripp’s hand had gripped her thigh under the table. Taking a breath, she picked up her own glass – then deliberately spilled it over the man’s burgundy coat.

‘Oh dear – pray forgive my clumsiness!’ She turned to Lady Arabella with an apologetic smile. ‘I fear I am at sixes and sevens tonight.’

Lady Arabella lowered her spoon of rabbit fricassee. ‘Think naught of it, my dear.’ She beckoned to a footman, who hurried up. ‘Refill Mistress Brand’s glass,’ she ordered, ‘and fetch a cloth for Mister Tripp.’

Tripp cursed under his breath. But Lady Arabella caught Betsy’s eye, and signalled with a glance that she understood perfectly well what had happened. She was no fool, Betsy thought – and wondered fleetingly how much she knew about a certain mistress, across the Park.

Tripp had by now withdrawn his hand, allowing Betsy to pay attention to her carp. Small wonder, she mused, that Lord Caradoc invited actors to his table: for she, and to some extent Thomas and Mary Betterton, had been acting since they stepped out of the coach.

There was a stir as a footman approached the table carrying a great silver dish with a large pie upon it. Another servant cleared a space, and the platter was set down before Alderman Blake, who blinked at it.

‘My Lady!’ He looked at Lady Arabella, and decided to make an attempt at humour. ‘My stomach is almost filled. I pray you do not expect me to despatch this, too?’

Lady Arabella peered at the monstrous pastry in some surprise. ‘I confess I know not what it contains, sir,’ she answered, then smiled faintly. ‘And yet I have an inkling it’s some treat my husband has ordered, in your honour.’ She glanced at Lord Caradoc, who appeared not to have noticed the dish’s arrival. Lady Arabella then turned her gaze upon Samuel Tripp and Betsy, favouring them both with a wink, and at once, Betsy guessed what was afoot.

It was a
blind-bake
: a false pie, part of which had been partitioned off with a wall of pastry and filled with dried peas or other ballast. After it was cooked, the crust would have been opened and the filling removed. Then something – and no one except the organizers of the jape would have known what – was put into the empty space, and the crust replaced. Thus when the pie was set upon the table, the moment it was opened the diners would receive a surprise – one which they were unlikely to forget.

A straight face was called for, and Betsy kept hers. Lord Caradoc was known at times for his boisterous manners, and no doubt had privately ordered his cook to prepare this treat for his guest. Whether the action was wise, however, she doubted; for Blake, unlike his host, was not a man noted for his sense of fun. Samuel Tripp, too, seemed ill-at-ease at what was going to happen, no doubt wondering as Betsy did what was waiting to leap, fly or even slither out of the pie. Mice, small birds, frogs, even a snake: the live ingredients depended on the host’s humour, not to mention that of his guests. However, noting Lady Arabella’s growing excitement, Betsy guessed that there was nothing to fear. And more, she knew that she and the other ladies would be expected to scream hysterically, and provoke roars of laughter from the men. Acting, again.