Wicked Company (39 page)

“Hunter!” she protested laughingly. “’Tis
five
o’clock! We should be at Orchard Street! The performance begins in an hour’s time. Mr. Arthur will be frantic!”

“Oh… God!” he groaned, pulling himself to a sitting position and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He turned and stared at her, a lecherous grin spreading across his face.

“Well… well. My saucy little pupil is wide awake,” he teased, leaning over to nibble playfully at her earlobe. “I will expect you to prepare yourself for Lesson Two, commencing immediately after the performance tonight… what say you?”

“Hunter!”
she remonstrated with mock severity. “I fear you take your role as tutor too seriously.”

“Oh, I take it
very
seriously indeed,” he answered, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her with a ferocity that sent the blood singing through her veins. “God’s bones, but you could make me miss a performance for the first time in my life,” he murmured, kissing her again with growing ardor.

“No… we cannot,” she cried weakly against his lips. “I promise you, professor…” she said urgently, “we shall return to my lessons just as soon as the curtain closes tonight.”

“Then you wish it as much as I?” he demanded, suddenly serious, his eyes searching her intently.

“Aye, Hunter.” She smiled timorously. She swung her legs to the edge of the mattress and looked at him over her shoulder. “’Tis like a dream… having you for my own,” she admitted shyly. He lifted her tangled hair from off her shoulders, swiftly kissed the nape of her neck, and gave her a gentle shove.

“Out of my bed, wench,” he laughed, “or the dancing we do tonight will never be performed on stage.”

***

Sophie emerged from the women’s tiring-room and sauntered dreamily past the flies to stand at her starting position off stage left. Hunter was already standing in costume in the shadows and he gave her hand a welcoming squeeze.

“I shall miss dancing with you in London,” she whispered wistfully, standing on tiptoe to reach his ear.

“Not to worry, love,” Hunter whispered back. “You’ll be dancing with me at Smock Alley. I know I can persuade them to give you employment.”

“Dublin?”
she said, staring at him aghast. Someone nearby hissed
“Shhh!”
and Sophie lowered her voice to a croak. “You’re planning to play in
Ireland
next season?”

“Aye, and the summer season, too,” he replied, flashing her his most engaging smile. “And so must you. I’ve already signed my contract… last winter, when Henry Mossop came to Bath recruiting for his theater.”

The orchestra had begun to play the musical cue heralding their entrance.

“No!” she whispered. “Dear God, Hunter… I can’t go with you… not to
Ireland!
It’s to
London
we must go! What about Aunt Harriet? And there’s my book shop… and my play—”

Sophie’s anguished response was cut short by the first strains of the music to which they were to dance. Hunter grabbed her roughly by the hand and pulled her out in front of an admiring audience that seemed determined to enjoy the last presentation of the 1763-1764 theatrical season. Sophie wondered if the onlookers had any notion that despite her bright, hard smile, she was on the edge of dissolving into a fit of loud weeping.

The hours that followed had been agonizing as Sophie endured the closing night festivities, followed by a silent walk back to Hunter’s lodgings while many conflicting thoughts whirled through her head. Once they were inside the door at Pierpont Place, however, Sophie could no longer contain her dismay.

“It
was
a trick!” she exclaimed in a low voice as she and Hunter entered his chambers.

“What was?” he demanded, shutting the door quickly.

“You’ve known all this time you were leaving for Dublin, and this afternoon, you heard me talk about Colman’s wanting changes in our comedy. You
knew
that would require my being in London. Yet you said
nothing
about playing next season in Ireland! Not
here!”
she declared, pointing at the rumpled bed standing in the corner, “not as we walked to the theater tonight… not
anywhere!
Instead, you plied that dangerous charm of yours to get what
you
so
desired—even if it meant asking me to abandon my poor aunt and to give up my one chance to become a produced playwright! But, no!
You
had decided what was best for me, hadn’t you? Because what is most important here is what is best for
you!
Do you deny this?” she demanded.

Hunter refused to reply, his body tense and unyielding.

“Hunter,” she persisted, tears edging her voice, “when we made perfect, beautiful love this afternoon, I thought it was safe to show you how much I… I care about you… have cared for so long… because I thought you would want a life that was good for me too.”

“Why is it not good for you to come with me to Dublin?” he asked stubbornly.

“Because I left a life behind me in London!” she exclaimed in frustration. “My aunt is in an insane asylum! I must see how she is faring… I must
try
to do something to help her.” Hunter remained silent as he tugged angrily at his neck linen. “I left poor Lorna responsible for my bookstore and I must see to that,” she continued insistently, sensing he was already discounting her reasons for wanting to return to London. “And my
play,
Hunter! I’m no actress… my tongue goes all wobbly the minute I speak on stage and my dancing is only adequate. You know perfectly well that I haven’t a scintilla of the performing talent you have. But I want to write plays. I know that now. Don’t you see how much this chance to have my work mounted at Drury Lane
means
to me?”

“And can’t you see how important this engagement in Dublin is to
me?”
he demanded, shedding his coat and flinging it on a chair.

“You can gain employment as a player in London,” she countered, “but I can’t secure the same opportunity as a playwright in Ireland—not a chance like the one Peter and I have now at Drury Lane.”

“Well, Smock Alley means more to me than merely prancing on a stage,” Hunter replied hotly. “I’m to be assistant manager and supervise nearly half of the repertoire this summer and next season as well. ’Tis
my
chance to move beyond being a mere player. I want to
own
a theater someday… like your sainted David Garrick.”

“I understand that,” she whispered, blinking at the tears that had begun to fill her eyes, “and I wish you every chance to realize that dream, but what about
my
dream? Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me you had signed a contract to go to Ireland before we—”

“Because, Sophie, I was sure that once we made wonderful love together as I
knew
we would… as we
have,
” he replied hoarsely, “there would be no doubt in your mind that your place was with me. I see I was wrong. Your ambition overrules your heart, it seems.”

“But you gave me no choice in the matter!” Sophie replied, stung by his jibe. “You dazzled and beguiled me with hot looks and sweet words and that beautiful body of yours and now you tell me what
you
think is best for me because it fits so conveniently with your plans. Your ambitions are just as strong as mine.
What about what is best for both of us?
Have you
ever
considered that when it comes to a woman?” she demanded. Hunter merely glowered at her. “I thought not,” she added, feeling drained and worn out. She turned to face the door.

“The other reason I didn’t tell you about Dublin,” he interjected in a low voice, addressing his words to her stiffened back, “was that I feared you’d say what you’re saying to me right now—and I wanted you so much, Sophie,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” When she didn’t turn around or reply, he added bleakly, “And I feared that you wouldn’t go to Ireland if… if you knew Mavis Piggott’s play was to be done at Smock Alley. ’Twas she who introduced me to Henry Mossop when he came here last winter to see whom he might lure to Dublin. ’Tis
nothing
to me that Mavis is going there, but—”

“Mavis Piggott’s going to Dublin next season, too?” Sophie demanded indignantly, whirling around to face him. “Ah, so
now
I understand!” she added bitterly, heading for his front door. “Why would you choose to be with me if it means giving up such a choice part in that strumpet’s play?”

“Where are you going?” he shouted after her.

“To London,” she cried. And she didn’t look back.

Book 4

1764-1766

[I am]… forced to write for Bread and not ashamed to own it.

—Aphra Behn, preface to
Sir Patient Fancy

Sixteen

Dare you risk it, Sophie?” whispered Lorna Blount anxiously, as she watched her friend don a pair of knee trousers and a small-size coat. The garments were the same ones worn by the actress Kitty Clive in numerous “breeches” parts in which the heroine dressed as a man.

Drury Lane’s wardrobe chamber was located at the rear of the stage and one floor below the level of the street outside. Even at midday, the room was full of shadows, with motes of dust suspended in the murky light. Mounds of costumes hung on pegs and spilled out of dozens of wicker trunks. Upstairs, the theater was quiet. Most of the players had departed for their customary summer engagements, and only the scene painters and a skeleton crew remained to prepare for the September opening of the new season.

“Dr. Monro will never recognize me in this garb,” Sophie declared with more bluster than confidence. She pulled back her auburn hair and tied it tightly with a ribbon stored in a box nearby. “Have you seen any tri-cornered hats?” she asked, casting her eyes about the musty chamber.

Lorna burrowed under a mound of cavalier chapeaus festooned with ostrich plumes and handed her friend a sedate black model shaped like a felt triangle. Although Sophie was nervous about appropriating a costume from the hundreds in storage, she soothed her conscience by vowing to donate a larger portion of her opening night playbill profits to George Colman’s coffers. Upon returning from Bath, she had tried to put her unhappy parting from Hunter out of her mind by calling at the Garricks’ chambers on Southampton Street, only to discover that the theatrical couple had remained abroad. Their butler revealed that his employers had been constantly on the move, visiting various countries on the Continent and being feted wherever they went. Thanks to Lorna Blount’s faithful printing and selling of playbills at Drury Lane, George Colman welcomed Sophie’s offer to continue this service and to supervise the cast announcements that would run daily in
The Public Advertiser
during the coming season.

In a remote corner of her mind, there was never a day when she didn’t mourn Hunter’s absence, or long for the absolute peace—not to mention the passion—she had experienced in his arms. Weeks passed, however, and no letter arrived, seeking a reconciliation or even informing her of his safe arrival in Dublin. To dull the pain of regret, she determined to keep frantically busy, and this she did.

Her first days back in London had been devoted to revising
The Footmen’s Conspiracy
with Peter, as well as running Ashby’s Books and Printing, and dashing back and forth to Drury Lane on various assignments. Sophie had not been able to muster the time—or the courage—to call on her aunt at Bedlam to see how she fared. But now, after a month back in London, she could postpone her duty no longer.

“What if that sawbones, Monro, should lay eyes on you again?” Lorna asked worriedly.

“I
have
to see my aunt… or at least make the attempt,” Sophie responded, clamping the tricorner on her head. “I shall be all care and caution, I promise you.”

“But if Monro should find you out, there’ll be no Hunter to come to the rescue!” Lorna exclaimed, and then appeared chagrined, as a look of distress flickered over Sophie’s features.

“I know,” she replied softly, “but I
must try.”

There had been no secrets between the two friends and Sophie had shared the sorry tale of her acrimonious parting from Hunter and her less-than-satisfactory working arrangement with Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt. Adding to her distress, Peter had become increasingly adamant that Sophie
not
reveal their joint authorship for fear of antipathy toward petticoat scribes.