Beloved Scoundrel (18 page)

After a light snack in the late afternoon she rested a little, hoping that John would show himself and accompany her to the theatre. But he didn’t arrive so she dressed in the horrid light of the fading afternoon. She had the clerk at the hotel desk get her a sleigh and drove to the theatre.

The first person to greet her was a worried-looking Leroy Barnes. The old character man gazed at her in surprise and asked, “Is Mr. Booth not with you?”

“No,” she said, still tingling from the cold outside. “I have not seen him since this morning. Did he not come here for the morning rehearsal?”

The actor’s lined face showed his answer before he replied, “There has been no sign of him!”

She untied the strings of her purple bonnet and hastily said, “We must not lose heart!”

The character actor raised his eyebrows. “The play will begin in a little more than an hour.”

She pretended to be casual about it. “He has been late before. We’ll keep busy and he’ll arrive.”

“He’d better!” Leroy Barnes said gloomily.

Fanny entered her dressing room in a shocked state. Her maid was waiting for her and helped her off with her things. She sat before the makeup mirror staring into the glass at the features of the worried stranger who seemed to have nothing to do with her. She was in costume and giving the last moment touches to her makeup and still he had not arrived.

She knew now! She dared not admit it even to herself but she knew! She had sent her dresser to try and get some word. A last desperate hope that John might still arrive lingered as the door opened and the troubled Gloria came hurrying in with an envelope in her hand. The black maid thrust the envelope at her.

“The stage manager had this!” Gloria said.

She gave the black woman an agonized look as she took the envelope, and asked, “He has not come?”

“No, ma’am,” Gloria said, clearly trembling.

Fanny ripped open the envelope and read its message: “The call has come! I have no choice but to go! Your beloved, John Wilkes B.” She fought the tears which welled up in her eyes and in a taut voice told her dresser, “Fetch the stage manager at once!”

As she waited for him to come she stared at herself again in the mirror. She saw the mask of tragedy which her lovely face had become. Closing her eyes she made an effort to draw on all her years of training. Made herself remember her trouper father’s advice not to allow anything conquer her control of herself as an actress.

There was hurried footsteps behind her and she heard the agitated voice of Leroy Barnes, the character actor who had lately become the company stage manager, as he said, “What is it, Miss Cornish?”

She looked up at his troubled old face. “Disaster, old friend. John has left the city without any proper warning for us!”

The old man stared at her as he took this in. Then he asked, “Shall I make an announcement to the audience and tell them to line up at the box office for their money back?”

“No!” she said sharply. “We will play!”

“But how?” the old man asked.

“Delay the curtain a little. Get the understudy ready. We will somehow manage. Meanwhile, I will speak to the audience myself.”

Leroy Barnes gasped. “That is unheard of! It is not your responsibility!”

“I shall make it my responsibility,” she said, all resolve now that her mind had been made up. She rose from her dressing table and turning to him, said, “You will prepare the understudy while I’m addressing the audience. After all, they have come to see me and John.”

The old stage manager dropped his hands at his side, all protest silenced. He said, “Very well. I’ll make arrangements for you to take the stage.”

She made her way downstairs in costume for the play of the evening and passed the awed members of the company gathered silently backstage. Moving forward she allowed a stage hand to hold the curtain open a little so she could step out on the front of the stage, close to the hissing gas footlights.

At the sight of her there was a brief murmuring and then a kind of deathly silence. All the hundreds of faces in the party-darkened auditorium seemed to be staring up at her as if hypnotized.

She inclined her head in a gracious gesture and said, “I beg your cooperation. Due to an unexpected circumstance my co-star John Wilkes Booth will not be able to appear tonight. However, we propose to present the play with his understudy, Mr. Alfred Sloane, in his role.”

There was a louder murmuring now and many heads were turned and whispers exchanged among the patrons. She silenced them again by raising her hand and saying, “The company and I will consider it a tribute on your part that you remain for what I fully believe will be a completely enjoyable evening!” She bowed at this.

There was a moment of uneasy silence then a burst of applause. Fanny smiled at the audience and curtsied. This caused another spontaneous round of applause. She then made her way back from the apron into the prompter corner in the wings.

A frightened Alfred Sloane was waiting for her there in the costume of Captain Absolute. He said, “I think I can acquit myself favorably but I have not done the part for months.”

Dressed as Lydia Languish, she forced a smile for him, and tapped him gently on the arm with her fan. “I have no doubt you will do very well!”

Charles Dale, ready for his role of “Sir Anthony Absolute” father of the hero, came breathlessly to her, to inquire, “What has happened to my dear friend John?”

She said, “I cannot tell you. I only know he has left the city.”

“Left the city!” the stout, old man gasped. “Will it mean the closing of the company?”

“I hope not,” she sighed. “Just now I’m concerned as to how we get through the evening.”

She gave a signal for the curtain to go up and the play began. Alfred Sloane did not distinguish himself in his leading role but the balance of the company, including Fanny, labored hard to make up for his weakness by giving their best. The final curtain fell to sound applause. The audience had at least been satisfied.

Stage manager Leroy Barnes, was near by to congratulate her as she left the stage to go to her dressing room. “You worked wonders, Fanny. But what will happen when the word gets about that John Wilkes Booth is no longer leading man with the company?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Mr. Barnum is up in your dressing room waiting for you,” the stage manager warned her. “He came during the last act and went directly up there.”

“Thank you, Barnes,” she said and hurried up the iron steps to the level of her dressing room.

Phineas T. Barnum was seated in the room’s only big, comfortable chair, a cigar in his mouth, and a frown on his big, jowelled face.

“So it’s over at last,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth. “How did it go?”

“Very well under the circumstances,” she said, standing before the great man still in her costume and makeup.

“How could this happen?” Barnum rumbled angrily.

“He gave me no warning!”

His eyes met hers. “I know you were more to each other than co-stars in the company. You have been living with him! How could he be planning to do something like this without your having any warning?”

Fanny bit her lip. “I did have a kind of warning. But it seemed so unlikely I couldn’t bring myself to discuss it with you!”

Barnum reminded her, “I engaged him on your word he could be made to behave. You are in a large part responsible!”

“I know.”

“Do you think there is any chance of his returning? I mean in time for tomorrow night’s performance.”

Fanny shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“You know where and why he had gone?”

“Yes,” she said. “He has gone to Washington. He and some other hotheads plan to kidnap President Lincoln and hold him hostage!”

Chapter
9

The famed Barnum showed utter consternation on his broad face as he heard this shocking news. It was a full moment before he gasped, “Mad! That young man has to be utterly mad!”

“I fear you are right,” she said solemnly.

“The authorities should be notified,” the showman said, rising.

“I disagree,” she said. “I’m certain his wild plan will come to nothing. And we might only place him in more jeopardy.”

“You are thinking about Booth.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting Barnum’s. “I

must! He told me what he planned in confidence. And I cared deeply for him. We planned to marry when the war ended.”

Barnum studied her shrewdly. “Do you really think you will ever marry him?”

She shook her head. “Not now! I’m certain he will throw his life away in some impulsive, pointless act.”

The big man bit on his cigar. “At any rate he is lost to the company. Have you any suggestions?”

Fanny nodded. “Yes. A British actor came to see me the other evening. Eric Mason by name, he played in companies with my husband. And he seems to have had excellent experience. I told him to call on you.”

Barnum said, “Yes. I wasn’t able to see him but he left his card. Do you think he could lead the company with you?”

“Yes,” she said. “He probably isn’t as talented as either David or John Wilkes Booth, but I think he might build his own following.”

“We haven’t much choice,” Barnum said. “We can give him a try.”

“I think we should begin to work out a new repertoire of plays,” she went on. “Then the new man would not find himself being compared with John.”

Barnum looked a little brighter. “Excellent idea,” he said. “I’ll leave the selection of the plays up to you. You naturally ought to pick out those with good parts for the leading lady.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Did you know that Edwin Booth is coming to New York for a season?” he went on. “He has leased the Winter Garden and is going to do all his popular roles.”

Fanny said, “Then perhaps it is just as well John didn’t remain. There has always been jealousy on his part and he would be bound to be temperamental with his more noted brother playing in a theatre near him.”

“No doubt,” Barnum said dryly. “He has relieved us of any worry on that score. I shall get in touch with this Mason at once.”

“I only hope he hasn’t accepted some other engagement,” she said as she saw the imposing Barnum to the door.

At the door he halted and looking directly at her, asked, “You want me to keep silent about John’s intended mission.”

“I beg you to do so,” she pleaded. “I told you only to be completely honest with you. I’m sure the plot will go awry.”

“I agree,” Barnum said with a frown . “ But I regret that you confided in me. The burden of the knowledge will trouble me.”

She went on, “The President is far too carefully guarded for anything of that sort to be able to happen. John will never be able to carry out his plan.”

“True,” Barnum said with a sigh, sounding at least half convinced.

It was a sad night for Fanny. Once the necessity of preserving a brave front was at an end she wished to throw herself on the cot in her dressing room and sob out her concern. Gloria hovered nervously nearby making her minute tasks great ones so she might remain with her. At last Fanny exhausted her sorrow and slowly dressed for the winter night.

At the hotel the suite of rooms was distinctly empty without the presence of the handsome, dark, young actor. Even though he had spent a lot of time off on his ill-chosen adventures, he had filled the place with life when he was around. She sank into the chair before the fireplace where she had so often sat with him and the drenching melancholy swept over her once more.

She stared anxiously into the multi-colored flames and thought of the time when she had first arrived in America. She had suddenly been assailed by a feeling of depression then, and not long after David had been killed in the train accident. She now feared that she would never see John Wilkes Booth alive again. She tried to suppress the thought but it was troubling her in a very real fashion.

That night her dreams were tormented and John played a large part in them. She went over many moments they had shared together and in a painfully real nightmare which finally brought her awake in the morning, she was standing with Booth on stage playing a familiar scene from
Richelieu
when great darkness descended on the stage and he was lost to her! She sought him vainly and cried out his name, then came awake.

She ordered breakfast and the morning newspapers. In all of them there were different versions of the story of John’s disappearance and the substitution of his understudy at the last moment. One paper snidely suggested he had vanished because he did not wish to appear on the New York stage at the same time as his more famous brother, Edwin.

Another story, more malicious in tone, was equally upsetting. In this account the weakness of the understudy was made much of. And the writer pointed out it was known that Mr. Booth and his leading lady were close friends and there had been many rumors of their marriage. He suggested that perhaps it was the quarrel of two lovers which had left the stage of the Lyceum empty of its male star on the previous night!

She tossed the papers aside with disgust and tried to make herself eat some breakfast. But the truth was she was more lonely and broken by the absence of John Wilkes Booth that she had imagined she ever could be. She remained in her hotel room in seclusion for the morning. At noon she received a message from Barnum, typically terse and informative, “Have hired Mason. Sending him to you.”

The somewhat austere young Englishman presented himself at her suite early in the afternoon. He looked even more shabby and emaciated in the bright, afternoon sunshine and she could not help but feel sorry for him. Yet he conducted himself with a great deal of dignity and his ascetic nature did not allow him to show any excitement or more than polite gratitude for this great opportunity which had some his way.

He stood by the fireplace, his hands behind his back, and said, “I appreciate that you brought me to Mr. Barnum’s attention. And Mr. Booth leaving the company has been a lucky event as far as I’m concerned.”

Fanny smiled ruefully. “Not for the rest of us,” she said. “I’m on my way to the theatre now to join the company for a rehearsal. Are you up in ‘Shylock?’ We are doing the
Merchant
tonight.”

“One of my better roles,” Eric Mason said at once. “I’m not too good at the more romantic parts but I can manage character leads well. I played ‘Shylock’ to Henry Broadbibb’s ‘Bassanio.’ And you know he is now a star in London under the name of Henry Irving.”

“Of course,” she said. “I have a friend in his company. A veteran character actress.”

“I shall need a costume fitting and a run through and I’ll be ready,” Eric Mason assured her.

She rose. “We will set about that now. And we shall have all the advertisements and heralds changed to your name. I plan to introduce some new plays. To give you a chance to create favorite roles for your New Year introduction as a leading man.”

This pleased him. “You are most kind, Mrs. Cornish. Until we have the new plays ready we can safely stay with the usual classics. I’m familiar with most of them.”

So began her association with Eric Mason. In the midst of all the confusion the young man remained quite calm and self-assured. She could only conclude that a kindly fate had sent him to her.

Though he was too reserved to ever be as fine an emotional actor as John Wilkes Booth he gave excellent performances within a more narrow range.

Phineas T. Barnum made a judgment on him after seeing him in several roles, saying, “He will not set the world on fire with his talent. Yet talent he has in plenty! And I vow that for the next twenty or thirty years he’ll be a sought after leading man by every female star in the business. He supports you in excellent fashion, Fanny, without taking any honors from you!”

She felt the great showman had truly summed up Eric Mason. And it pleased her that as soon as the young man received his first money he at once bought new clothes and shoes. He had been literally on his uppers when he’d been rescued by the unexpected disappearance of John Wilkes Booth.

Several weeks passed before she heard from him. In a letter postmarked Washington, he wrote her, “Our plans have had a setback. But this is only temporary. I see many of the theatre people here and sometimes drop in at Ford’s or some other playhouse and talk with old friends. Most of all I miss you, my darling! And when this business has been taken care of I shall return to you for all time, your loving, John.”

Fanny was both relieved and troubled by the letter. She was relieved to know that the handsome actor whom she cared for so much was alive and well and troubled to learn that he still had intentions of carrying through with his mad plot against the President. Barnum was also worried about this and had mentioned it to her several times. Each time she had been able to placate him by insisting the scheme was mostly a figment of the imagination of the fanatical Booth!

She had picked out
Dot,
an adaptation of Charles Dickens’
Cricket On The Hearth,
as one of the new plays,
The Country Wife
by Wycherly as another, both giving her the main star roles. Then unexpectedly she received the script of another play which turned out to be her greatest success, it was a farce comedy called,
The Maid and The Miser.
The story of a clever girl who marries a miser and changes his nature. It was the first play of the blind actor, Tom Miller.

Nancy mailed it to her from Washington with an enclosed letter in which she said, “Tom hopes you will like the play. It has been read by a local manager who wanted to do it but we felt you should have first choice. Tom is now working on a second play and life in the city is much the same as when you left it. The war news, is better, of course. We hope the end may soon come. I’m sorry you and John are parted. I saw him on the street one day and I’m sure he saw me. But he behaved most strangely, instead of coming to greet me, he turned and almost ran off in the opposite direction.”

This news did not surprise Fanny. If John were involved in some sort of underground work it was natural he did not wish to be seen by close friends. He had mentioned dropping by the various theatres but she presumed this was in the most casual way and maybe not even true.

The important thing at this moment was Tom Miller’s play. The moment she read it she was delighted with it. And she at once informed the brave young playwright that she would open the play in New York and pay him a royalty per performance in line with the terms paid the most popular dramatists. Tom and Nancy accepted her offer at once and were thrilled at the idea of the play being produced by her.

Fanny intended to have the two come to New York for opening night. But before this she received an urgent letter from Edwin Booth who was still playing a season at the nearby Winter Garden Theatre.

He wrote, “My dear Fanny, I have a matter I would discuss with you. Can you join me at Delmonico’s for a private supper after the performance tomorrow night, Yours sincerely, Edwin B.”

She replied that she would meet him. The weather had taken a change and the snow and slush was gone. Now a doleful period of spring rain had come to New York. After the performance she had the stage manager get her a carriage and she went directly to Delmonico’s. She was greeted by the owner and informed her Edwin Booth was waiting for her in one of the upstairs private dining rooms.

This made her think that whatever he had to discuss was of some serious nature. She thought it might be because some of the yellow press had linked John and herself as lovers and he wanted to spare her any embarrassment. When she entered the private dining room the slender, smaller brother of John greeted her with a handshake and a melancholy smile.

His eyes seemed more sunken than she remembered them and his complexion to have a nasty pallor. His dark curly hair fell to his collar framing the sensitive, handsome face which reminded her of John.

He said, “It was good of you to come, Fanny.”

“I have been waiting to talk with you,” she said.

He led her to the candle-lit table which was set for their midnight supper. From a bucket he lifted a champagne bottle and poured out drinks for them. They sat at the table and faced each other in the soft glow of the candles.

Booth said, “Have you heard from Johnny?”

“One letter.”

“When?”

“Several weeks ago.”

Edwin Booth nodded. “Did he tell you anything of import?”

“Only that he was well. That he was involved in some kind of business for the Confederacy.” She looked down. “And that he loved me.”

“I’m certain that he does,” Edwin said in his sympathetic way. “My poor, foolish brother would have done well to remain in New York and marry you.”

“It is this obsession he has about the South,” she said.

“I know all too well,” the great actor said wearily.

He rose and began to pace by the table. “Yesterday morning I received a letter from my mother and I determined at once to get in touch with you. Johnny wrote her that his plan to kidnap Lincoln had gone awry.”