Wicked Company (26 page)

Battie, a well-respected Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, vehemently disagreed with this course of treatment and with Monroe’s use of “dangerous purgatives.” In his essay, Battie issued an urgent call for a fresh approach and pressed those in his profession to create a new standard of care and treatment for the insane.

Still standing on the chair, Sophie turned from Battie’s work to the bound remarks of Dr. Monro, written in response to his challenger. Monro did everything but label his adversary a madman himself!

Absorbed in her reading, the door to the shop opened and a deep voice declared, “What in the world are you doing up there in such a precarious position!”

Hunter’s voice startled Sophie so much, she had to grasp the edge of the shelf to keep from falling off her perch.

“Lud, but you gave me a turn!” she gasped.

Hunter advanced across the shop, offering to help her down. His large hands clasped her waist and he lifted her to the ground as if she were a feather. Encircled in his grasp, Sophie found herself staring up at him, her lips inches from his. A palpable current of emotion passed between them and for several moments, neither spoke.

“Any customers?” he inquired at length, finally taking a step backward and releasing her from his grip.

“N-no,” Sophie admitted shakily, “but I embarrassed old Georgie Garrick into allowing me to sell programs again. Any luck at Covent Garden?” she asked anxiously.

Hunter shook his head. The highly charged moment had passed.

“’Twas the same story as at Drury Lane. I am late in petitioning them for principal roles and they have ‘too many warblers’!” He sounded uncharacteristically discouraged. “I suppose I could go back to strolling and street singing—”

“No!” Sophie injected vehemently. “You’re far beyond such everyday performing. There
must
be a way to find you work!”

“I thank you for your loyalty, pet,” Hunter said gravely, “but I must sort all this out soon. It may even be too late to go back to the Canongate…”

“Oh, you
can’t
leave London!” Sophie wailed, and then looked away, embarrassed to reveal so plainly how important his presence was to her. “Let’s close the shop and repair to the Three Tuns. We’ll think of something.”

Hunter looked uncomfortable and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, poppet, but I’ve made plans to dine with some friends later. Let me run and get you something tasty though. You can eat it in front of the fire while I dress.”

Sophie tried to hide her disappointment, but accepted his compromise with good grace.

Before long, she was putting knife and fork to her mutton chop while listening to the sounds of Hunter dressing in the next room. He appeared in front of her hearth looking resplendent in a pair of buff breeches and a burgundy-colored coat that she hadn’t seen before.

“When did you acquire those handsome lace collars and cuffs?” Sophie asked admiringly.

“Oh… a ruffle-making lass named Mary Ann sold ’em to me not long after I arrived in London,” he said with a grin. “Got quite a good price!”

“So I would imagine,” Sophie replied grimly. “Mary Ann Skene, was it? That seamstress down the road… that is when she’s not trolling for—”

“Aye,” Hunter interrupted, avoiding her glance. “I think ’twas her name.” He strode over to inspect his friend’s dinner platter. “Good lass!” he commented on her hearty appetite. “You’re actually getting a little meat on your bones.” He pinched her chin affectionately. “And you’ve roses in your cheeks again, I’m happy to see.” He bent down to the coal box and tossed several black chunks on the low burning fire. “There! That should keep you cozy.” He winked at her. “Sleep well.”

***

When Sophie awoke, the fire had gone out and she shivered in her night dress. She was curled up in a chair where she had fallen asleep after rereading the two essays by the physicians whose views on treating the insane were so contradictory. She padded over to the door to the printing room, expecting to see Hunter asleep on his pallet. It was empty. She glanced up at the window in the ceiling, but the sky was pitch black. The church bell in the tower of St. Paul’s tolled the hour: four o’clock.

Where was Hunter?
her heart cried out, but her whirling thoughts already provided the answer.

He was with a woman. Perhaps that jade, Mary Ann Skene, who so cleverly combined the profession of ruffle maker with that of harlot. Sophie was suddenly gripped by a blackness of spirit she had only experienced during her most despairing moments at Bedlam. She pulled back the cold covers of her bed and climbed in, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes until the darkness bled into dull gray and the day of Drury Lane’s autumn opening finally dawned.

Sophie unlocked the doors to the book shop early and spent the entire morning glancing through the window hoping to catch sight of Hunter walking down Half Moon Passage. At the same time, she feared she would behave appallingly if he
did
come sauntering back after staying out all night. The fact was, she longed to see him under any circumstances.

Get a grip, Sophie, lass!
she chided herself sternly.
Whatever happens with that rogue Hunter Robertson, you’ve got to devise a way to make this book shop profitable to keep body and soul alive!

At around eleven, Lorna Blount arrived, allowing Sophie to call at the theater to confirm the following day’s cast and deliver her copy to
The Public Advertiser.
She returned to the shop around one o’clock, and when she walked through the front door, Lorna gave her a look of concern that signaled trouble.

“Hunter said to tell you he’ll write from Bath,” Lorna said carefully, tidying the counter, which was already immaculate. “He dashed in here just after you left, packed his belongings and raced for Soho to catch
The Fly.”

“W-what?” Sophie said, stunned.

“Seems he received word that there’s a place for him at the Orchard Street Theater there.”

“But he only met Mavis Piggott
four
days ago!”
she exclaimed, feeling the blood pound in her temples. Sophie began to pace up and down the shop like a tigress. “I’ll wager that strumpet’s left with him!” she seethed. “Nary a thought for Old Drury if she can snare a strapping stallion. ’Tis
disgusting!”

“Mavis remains in London,” Lorna reported, “at least that’s what Hunter said. Apparently the chit sent that Mr. Arthur a note the same day you all met, so sure was she that he had need of a player of Hunter’s type. As it turns out, someone in Arthur’s company had drowned in an accident on the Avon and the manager sent a runner to London, delighted with Mavis’s suggestion. The poor lad was in a terrible hurry to avoid missing his coach. It was the only departure available for two days and he was due to play a small role in
Much Ado About Nothing
tomorrow night. He had no choice but to dash for the station by noon.”

Sophie stood stock-still, trying not to give in to useless tears of disappointment. Just as unexpectedly as he had arrived in her life, Hunter Robertson had departed—and that was that.

“He left you a note,” Lorna volunteered.

“He
did?”
Sophie said, brightening.

Lorna handed her an old playbill. Sophie turned it over and scanned the uneven lines written in Hunter’s untutored hand.

I regret not seeing you before this hasty departure. Since I cannot serve as your Guardian Angel while in Bath, pray, dearest Sophie, refrain from any untoward or foolish actions. I am sore tempted to dismantle your printing press, but have not the time and will trust you to be sensible in all things.

Keep well and wish me luck.

H. R.

“Blast his bones!” Sophie exclaimed as an unbidden vision of Hunter’s empty pallet the previous night rose before her eyes. No doubt he’d slept with that harpy Mavis Piggott to demonstrate his gratitude!

He certainly is beyond bold, giving
me
advice on proper behavior
, she thought angrily.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to control her churning emotions. “Lorna?” she said in a tight voice. “Can you watch things here for a bit longer? I’ve something I must compose and print before
The Public Advertiser
closes this afternoon.”

Eleven

O
CTOBER 1763

All of literate London was talking about the controversial article detailing the horrors of the asylum known as Bedlam published in
The Public Advertiser.
The author of the piece had taken the pseudonym “Melancholia,” and speculation was rife as to whether it was actually written by William Battie, M.D., to advance his cause, or by someone else—perhaps the same Mr. Wood who had brought an action recently against Dr. Monro for falsely detaining him as a lunatic.

It pleased Sophie enormously that her article had caused such a sensation, even prompting numerous letters to public journals demanding reform. She took great satisfaction from the news that there was to be a Parliamentary inquiry on the issue—with Dr. Monro called to testify.

Inspired by this success, Sophie printed the same article in pamphlet form. She then employed neighborhood waifs to hawk the unsigned leaflet on street corners for sixpence a copy, garnering a tidy profit of three pounds. She derived no small enjoyment from the controversy she had stirred up. Even so, she tried not to think about Hunter’s reaction, if he were to learn of her latest attempt to goad the authorities.

And at night, when she was alone in her upstairs lodgings, she was often overcome with a foreboding that Dr. Monro would somehow find her out. Fortunately, when the sun rose each morning, her apprehension receded with the night’s shadows. Her routine at Drury Lane remained similar to what it had been when David Garrick was running the playhouse. In the evening, after she sold her complement of programs, the doorkeeper, Mr. Collins, allowed her backstage and the prompter, Mr. Hopkins, permitted her to sit quietly behind the flies, observing each night’s performances.

During October and November, Sophie witnessed sparkling productions of two hilarious comedies written by the late Susannah Centlivre,
The Wonder
and
The Busy Body,
as well as Shakespeare’s
Richard III, Twelfth Night, The Tempest,
and
Romeo and Juliet.

“’Tis something to be proud of, Mr. Hopkins,” Sophie declared when the curtain had closed on a particularly well-received performance of
The Busy Body.

“What is, my dear?” Hopkins asked absently, jotting down his customary notes in his diary of the night’s events at Drury Lane.

“The fact that Susannah Centlivre, dead these fifty years,
continues
to have many of her comedies presented on these boards. Think of it!” she said in an awestruck voice. “Twenty-one plays the woman has written!”

“What about Will Shakespeare?” Hopkins said with mild reproof. “He’s been dead some
two hundred
years and he’s still the most popular playwright in history.”

“Aye… the power of the pen,” Sophie said softly. “It grants an immortality more sublime than anything promised by those fulminating clergymen.”

“What did you say?” Hopkins asked, startled that such irreverent words could be uttered by his polite young assistant.

“Nothing, sir,” Sophie said quickly. She smiled at him warmly. “And thank you for all your kindness… especially for allowing me to eavesdrop on all this,” she added, gesturing in the direction of the backstage servants who were now moving props and scenery in preparation for the next day’s fare.

“’Tis a magical process, to be sure, this transformation of lines on a page into living theater,” Hopkins agreed, tucking his pen into its holder. “The scenery painters… the lighting masters… the wardrobe keepers—they all play their part, don’t they? That’s why so many dilettantes who know nothing of the backstage arts discover to their sorrow and embarrassment that ’tis easier to call oneself a playwright than to conjure something memorable.”

“Aye,” Sophie said, her eyes shining with pleasure. “I see that now.” She impulsively gave the prompter’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “I look forward to assisting you any way I can with Mrs. Sheridan’s new work. Rehearsals start tomorrow, do they not?”

“That they do, my dear,” Hopkins smiled back. “Better sharpen your quill.”

The following morning, Sophie trudged through a light December snow, arriving back at the theater a little before ten o’clock. She made for the Greenroom to inform Mr. Hopkins of her arrival, hearing through the partly opened door the sound of loud voices arguing within the chamber.

“And you have the impudence to choose this piece of… of…
rubbish
over
my
work!” a feminine voice exclaimed.