Wicked Company (31 page)

The pink-cheeked proprietress brought them their tea and drew up a chair to join their company.

“Aye, Mr. Bryan,” she nodded. “The room’s available. Not very large, it is, but cozy and warm.”

“Well, this young miss is not very big herself, so perhaps it would suit.”

“On your own, are you?” the woman who’d been introduced as Mrs. Hervey asked, eyeing Sophie closely.

“Yes, I’m the new Orange Girl at the Orchard Street Theater.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Bryan,” Mrs. Hervey said doubtfully. “The Orange lassies tend to be light-o’-loves, you know…”

“Oh, please, Mrs. Hervey,” Sophie implored, feeling an unnerving sense of desperation. “I’m a very respectable person! My father was in trade as you are. He owned a book shop in Edinburgh. Please let me have the room! If you find I don’t suit, you can chuck me right out into the North Parade.”

Mrs. Hervey leaned back her head and laughed loudly. “All right, all right,” she said, “the chamber’s yours.”

***

In early January, the week before the theater reopened, Sophie offered to help Mrs. Hervey serve in her shop. She had hired two sedan-chair bearers to fetch her trunk from Hunter’s lodgings at a time she knew he would be at the theater and she was settled in her new upstairs room before he discovered she was gone. Without informing him where she was, she simply left him a note thanking him for his help and telling him she would see him opening night.

At five o’clock on the evening of Saturday, January 14, sedan chairs and carriages began jamming the narrow lane in front of the Orchard Street Theater as patrons or their servants sought seats on an unreserved basis. The scores of theatergoers were looking forward to an entertaining evening after the Christmas hiatus, and they jostled each other good-naturedly while streaming inside.

Sophie was pleased to have been assigned a position near the entrance marked “Boxes,” which meant she’d have a wealthier clientele for her refreshments. One look at Nancy Quinn, assigned to the upper galleries by John Arthur, explained Sophie’s own good fortune. Nancy was a young woman with gargantuan breasts that strained alarmingly against the top of her milkmaid costume. Her face, however, was ugly enough to have won her a role as one of the three witches in
Macbeth.

“Oranges… Spanish oranges!” Sophie shouted loudly, just as she had learned to do when hawking playbills at Drury Lane. The throng was in a buying mood and she was kept busy cutting the fruit in sections and exchanging it for six pence.

“Two oranges, if you please, and an extra penny for a kiss,” propositioned a dark-haired young buck decked out in frothy linen and an impeccably tailored sapphire brocade coat sporting deep cuffs and matching buttons. His companion’s larger frame was handsomely attired in plush black velvet and an ivory satin waistcoat embellished with exquisite yellow and green embroidered flowers. He appeared a few years older than his fellow theatergoer, and made no attempt to engage Sophie in flirtatious banter. Instead he appeared to be surveying her exchange with his friend with detached amusement. Both men, Sophie thought admiringly, had excellent taste in clothes and obviously the money to purchase them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” Sophie replied saucily, accustomed to such bold advances from her days at Drury Lane, “only oranges are dispensed here tonight! But thank you for the compliment!”

“Well, Peter,” remarked the more imposing gentleman to his crestfallen companion, “I’d say you’ve been rather neatly dismissed. Come, old boy… let us take our seats.”

Smiling coolly, Sophie turned to aid her next customer as the pair moved on.

At the interval, the younger of the two returned, ostensibly to purchase another orange.

“With this hankering for oranges, you’re certain to avoid the scurvy, sir,” she laughed, handing him the neatly sectioned fruit.

“Ah… ’tis more than oranges that I crave,” he smiled. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to take you for some refreshment after the program?”

“’Tis most kind of you, but we are not acquainted,” Sophie replied evenly.

“Well, do let me remedy the situation,” riposted the dark-haired young gentleman who appeared to be in his mid twenties. “I am Peter Lindsay-Hoyt, Baronet. My companion is the Honorable Roderick Darnly, the earl of Llewelyn’s second son. You’ve heard of that distinguished peer, I presume?”

Sophie surveyed the young man staring at her with such eagerness. He seemed the classic young aristocrat, full of confidence and bonhomie. She wagered silently that he had recently returned from the obligatory Grand Tour of the Continent where he had undoubtedly acquired a penchant for fine silk clothes cut in the latest fashion, as evidenced by the cascade of lace at his collar and cuffs. His handsome face was dusted with white rice powder and a tiny black patch decorated his cheek. His jet black eyebrows arched over dark brown eyes, giving his features a haughty look, although his manner toward Sophie exuded friendliness and a fervent desire to become better acquainted.

“I ordinarily reside in London,” Sophie replied to his question concerning the youthful baronet’s taller companion, “and I can’t say the name of your friend’s father is familiar to me.”

“So do
we!”
Sir Peter responded with enthusiasm. “Live in London, I mean. How coincidental! You
must
agree to allow me to escort you somewhere so we can share our impressions of that fascinating city.”

“Are you a Londoner by birth?” she inquired, efficiently slicing more oranges while she chatted with the engaging young fellow.

“No, I come from York,” he replied. “My grandfather’s Sir Thomas Hoyt, also a baronet. ’Twill be another title of mine someday,” he added with a sly wink.

“And your honorable companion?” she bantered.

“From Wales,” Sir Peter responded hurriedly, as if he feared she would be more enamored with an earl’s son, even if he wasn’t the heir. “Sad to say, Darnly’s older brother’s in line to inherit the family’s vast coal fields in that wretched backwater. Roderick prefers the pleasures of city life, as do I. Now, what of my proposal?” he urged. “It would give me the utmost enjoyment if you would accompany me to the Silver Swan this evening.”

“You’re very kind,” Sophie answered smiling, “but ’twill be dreadfully late before my duties here are finished. Thank you, no.”

Sir Peter had a rather winning way about him, she thought, watching a look of genuine disappointment flood his features. She piled the orange sections on to a tray and prepared to circulate to the far end of the foyer to pick up any business she had missed. Undoubtedly, this likeable young man sought a light-o’-love, not merely a dinner companion—a common-enough practice among the swells who regularly attended the theater. Even so, it was pleasant to receive such an invitation, Sophie considered ruefully, especially in light of Mavis and Hunter’s liaison. Inside the theater, she could hear the orchestra tuning up for another musical interlude.

“You’ll miss that wonderful Hunter Robertson if you don’t return to your box, sir,” she added with a false note of cheer. “And now I fear I must bid you good night.” Before Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt could utter another word, Sophie began calling out, “Oranges! Fresh oranges… six pence apiece.… Oranges!”

***

During the remaining two weeks of January, Sophie managed to avoid contact with Hunter and Mavis by remaining at the front of the theater tending to her duties, and then skipping out the foyer door each night before the actors had time to remove their paint and change out of their stage attire. Therefore, she had no hint of Hunter’s response to the news Mavis would bear his child.

On the other hand, she saw more of Sir Peter and the tall, rather forbidding Roderick Darnly. Both men appeared to be avid playgoers, attending performances of
The Foundling
and
The Deuce Is in Him,
as well as the February debut of
Love Makes a Man
and
The Honest Yorkshireman.

“You can’t expect a northerner like me to miss such a presentation,” Sir Peter said to Sophie as he lounged against a pillar in the foyer during the musical interval. “And besides, ’tis my passion, this playacting. I am writing a theatrical piece myself. ’Tis a capital amusement.”

“You deem yourself the next Garrick or Colman?” she teased, “nay, another Shakespeare, perhaps?”

Peter looked at her steadily.

“You’re not merely an Orange Girl, are you?” he said, his eyes kindling with warmth. “I mean, you’ve some education. You read and write, do you?”

“My milkmaid’s attire didn’t fool you, it seems,” Sophie murmured with feigned disappointment. “Yes,” she added matter-of-factly, “I have a fair hand and I am rather a good speller.”

“I really would like to get to know you better,” the young baronet said gently, clasping her hand in his. “Please, do allow me to take you to sup,” he added earnestly. “Perhaps you would read my play and give me your opinion?”

Sophie met his gaze and thought briefly of Hunter and Mavis playing opposite each other in Act Four of
Love Makes a Man
inside the theater.

“Perhaps we could meet,” she said moodily, extracting her hand from his and deftly slicing through another orange.

“Where may I find you?” Peter pressed.

“You may leave a message at Sally Lunn’s,” she parried.

“When
may I see you?” he persisted.

A burst of applause from inside the theater hung in the air between them, the result of some amusing exchange between Hunter and Mavis performing together on stage.

“Tuesday next,” Sophie replied decisively. “We’ve no rehearsals or a performance that night. I find that I am perfectly free.”

Thirteen

A driving sleet pierced the darkness cloaking Orchard Street as Sophie trudged the short distance from the theater to her lodgings. By the time she reached her garret room atop Sally Lunn’s, the icy rain had turned to a light snow. During the night the wind rattled the square panes, interfering with her slumber. When, finally, she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of Hunter and Mavis peering into a cradle, staring at a crying infant. In the early hours she rose from her frigid bed to retrieve two of Aunt Harriet’s old shawls from her trunk to keep warm.

As dawn broke over the river Avon, the wind finally died down and Sophie dozed off once again. She had no idea what time it was when a loud pounding reverberated at her door, pulling her back to consciousness.

“Sophie! Sophie! ’Tis me… open the door!” someone was shouting. The pounding grew more insistent. “Sophie! Are you in there?
Sophie!”

She stumbled out of bed, pulling a shawl around her shoulders.

“Who is it?” she mumbled sleepily, brushing her tangled hair from her eyes and leaning in a daze against the wall.

“Hunter. Sophie, I need to talk to you.”

“’Tis Sunday,” she muttered. “Early Sunday morning.”

“’Tis one o’clock in the
afternoon!”
he retorted through a crack in the wooden door. “Been keeping late hours, have you?”

“’Tis no affair of yours
what
I’ve
been doing, Hunter Robertson. Go away.”

“Sophie,
please
!” he pleaded. “I’ve come on the authority of Mr. Arthur. Betsy Neep, one of the dancers, tipped up with the ague last night. She made it through the performance, but
tomorrow
night—
”
He halted midsentence and began pounding on her door again.
“Will you open this door?
Please,” he added more civilly.

Sophie turned the key in the lock and cracked open the door.

“How did you discover my lodgings?” she demanded.

“Well, you’ve had the most extraordinary aroma of Bath buns hovering about you lately,” he bantered. When she glared at him indignantly, he added quickly, “’Twas a
jest,
Sophie. I asked everyone in the company where you were hiding, and Mr. Bryan told me he’d found you this abode. May I
see
what kind of closet he secured for you? Or have you a visitor?” he asked suspiciously.

“I asked Mr. Bryan not to tell anyone.”

“I had to pry it out of him. As this was an emergency, he finally relented.
Please
let me come in! I’m freezing out here. There’s even some snow on the ground.”

Sophie reluctantly opened her door. A blast of frosty air from the stairwell swept into the chamber as Hunter immediately walked over to her fireplace and began to ignite the coals with a flint he found on the hearthstone.

“God’s teeth, but ’tis cold,” he said, blowing on the coals to get them started.

“So a dancer has the ague. Why does that mean you must barge in here and—”

Hunter rose from tending the fire and turned to face her.

“You must dance with me Monday night,” he said earnestly. “Time is short, and you’re the only one who could do it.”