Love Plays a Part Page 3

  For the first time the thought struck Samantha with some force that she would be appearing among a very elite company. She felt a little trepidation at the thought, especially as her mind presented her - and rather forcibly - with a sudden picture of the darkly handsome face of Lord Roxbury. How utterly ridiculous, she told herself. That meeting with the haughty Lord Roxbury had been a one-time occurrence, a chance thing. London was a large city, very large, and it was quite unlikely that she would ever see Roxbury again. And a good thing too, she told herself grimly. She had little use for such creatures, acting as though they owned the world.

  Mr. Pomroy’s tentative hold on her elbow recalled her to the present. “Yes, yes,” she said, perhaps a little too brightly. “I’m all ready. Let’s go.”

  Mr. Pomroy nodded and escorted her carefully down the stairs. Samantha, looking back over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of Hester’s disapproving face and Jake’s smiling one. Then Mr. Pomroy was settling her into the carriage.

  Of course it was only a matter of moments before the carriage reached the theatre. In the evening, with the links all ablaze, it looked quite different from the way it had that morning when Samantha, accompanied by Jake, had taken the time from their settling in to go peek at it. Then everything had been calm and sedate. Now all was noise - the clatter of horses’ hooves, the shouts of competing coachmen, the cries of the playbill sellers. Now light blazed everywhere and gleamed back from diamond tiaras and be-jeweled bosoms, from dress uniforms and gentlemanly attire alike.

  Samantha, overwhelmed by the sight of so much display, turned to her escort. “Mr. Pomroy, such clothes, such jewels. I didn’t know.”

  “Your attire is perhaps a bit plain,” he said soothingly. “But it really doesn’t matter. I took seats in the two-shilling gallery. No one will notice us there.”

  “Of course,” said Samantha, suitably cheered by this logic, and she allowed him to guide her toward the great theatre. Now the crowd was so large that she could only get a glimpse of the basso-rilievos that filled the spaces between the windows and the projections at either end of the front of the building. Samantha recalled them dimly from her morning excursion. The northern side had been filled with figures from the ancient drama. She had not been able to recognize them. But the southern end, which presented modern drama, was occupied by Shakespeare and Milton. The great playwright was surrounded by the characters of his creation.

  As Mr. Pomroy guided her through the throng, Samantha recalled them in her mind. Caliban had been there, as had other of her friends from The Tempest:

  Ferdinand, Miranda, Prospero, and Ariel. They obviously represented Shakespeare’s comedy. Also represented were Lady Macbeth and her husband, drawing back in dismay from the body of the murdered Duncan. These Samantha took to stand for the master’s tragic work.

  At Mr. Pomroy’s side Samantha ascended the grand staircase. “I’m afraid we’re up rather high,” he said as they passed through the long hall divided by two rows of columns and into the anteroom, where she got a glimpse of what looked like a statue of Shakespeare on a pedestal.

  Samantha only nodded. Her eyes were growing wider and wider at the splendor of the place. Finally they reached the gallery, which was really quite high. But Samantha did not complain. She was in the theatre at last.

  She gazed around her in awe. The theatre seemed extremely large. Three rows of boxes encircled the house. The upper side-boxes had no roofs or canopies. Immediately behind them rose the slips, their fronts in a perpendicular line with the back of the upper side-boxes. The gallery in the center ranged with the fronts of the slips, making a circular form which upheld a range of arches supporting the circular ceiling. She tilted back her head to look at the ceiling, which was painted to imitate a cupola, in square compartments in a light relief. The panels were gray, decorated with wreaths of honeysuckle in gold. The box fronts were also ornamented in gold, and slender reeded pillars in gold supported each circle.

  Samantha looked toward the stage. It seemed very far away. Would she really be able to see Kean, to hear him? She leaned forward in anticipation. Two pilasters with gilt capitals graced the sides of the stage and supported a circular arch which was painted in light relief. The royal arms decorated the center of this and the crimson curtain hung from it. The ceiling of this arch was finished in the same manner as the cupola. Patent lamps and elegant chandeliers spread their light over the whole.

  Unconsciously Samantha heaved a great sigh. Mr. Pomroy, who had been gazing out over the throng, turned to her, a little frown on his round face. “You are not disappointed, are you?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Oh, no! It’s all very tremendous. But I am eager to see Kean.”

  “The curtain will not go up for some time yet.” Mr. Pomroy’s face took on a fatherly expression. “Look around you, Miss Everett. Everywhere you will see ladies and gentlemen of the ton. You should take your rightful place among them. Your birth and your inheritance entitle you to such a place.”

  Samantha let her eyes rove out over the boxes full of elegantly dressed people. She saw young women attended by young gentlemen, older women escorted by older men. Here and there a lovely woman was surrounded by men. In one box several such women sat; the rest of the box seemed to overflow with men. One woman seemed more important than the others, Samantha saw, a small woman with auburn hair. The other women wore more jewels and more elaborate gowns, but it was clear that the auburn-haired one held the authority. Samantha turned to Mr. Pomroy. “Who is the important lady in the box down there? The one with the auburn hair?”

  Mr. Pomroy looked in the indicated direction and seemed visibly distressed. His face turned a bright red, and little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “That - is not a lady,” he finally stammered.

  Samantha regarded the solicitor curiously. Whatever could be making him behave so strangely? “She must be a lady, Mr. Pomroy. And an important one too. Look at how the gentlemen attend her.”

  Mr. Pomroy shook his head and took a large white handkerchief from his pocket, with which he mopped his forehead and his bald dome. “No, she is not a lady. That is -I mean -” Mr. Pomroy was now obviously distressed. “That is Harriette Wilson. She is not a lady.”

  Samantha found this very bewildering. “But she is surrounded by gentlemen. Those are gentlemen.”

  Mr. Pomroy nodded. “Yes, yes. But you see, Harriette is, shall we say, a - a light-skirt. Oh, a brilliant one. But - but not a fit topic for one of your standing.”

  “And the ladies with her?” asked Samantha.

  “The one nearest her, with the flashing dark eyes, is her sister Amy. The others I cannot at the moment recall the names of.” Mr. Pomroy mopped again at his forehead.

  “She sells herself to men,” Samantha said in a voice of awe. It was impossible to have read as many plays as she had without encountering such creatures. But her imagination had always presented them to her in the crudest colors. She had never dreamed of seeing a real flesh-and-blood woman of ill repute. For some reason she had supposed that they were kept apart, hidden in some shadowy world. Never had she thought of them as moving about so proudly or displaying so much grace.

  “Really, Miss Everett.” Mr. Pomroy’s handkerchief could not keep up with his perspiration. “Such talk between us is not fit.”

  “Those men are lords, are they not?” Certainly they bore themselves with that same lazy, arrogant grace as that insolent Roxbury.

  “Yes.” Mr. Pomroy seemed unable to offer further protest.

  “Have any of them wives?” asked Samantha.

  Mr. Pomroy heaved a sigh of martyrdom before he answered. “Yes, they do. They may even be in the theatre.”

  “Watching their husbands with Miss Wilson?”

  Mr. Pomroy nodded miserably.

  “And this is the world you urge me to join?” asked Samantha with an incredulous look.

  “You are a young woman alone in the world,” said Mr. Pomroy, still struggling valiantly
to make his point. “A woman needs a husband.”

  “Like those?” One of Samantha’s eyebrows rose dramatically.

  “Not all the lords in London visit Harriette’s establishment. Besides, their wives have security.”

  Samantha shook her head so sharply that several tendrils of chestnut hair escaped their confinement. “That is not security. I should never consent to such a thing. Never.” Suddenly aware of the vehemence of her tone, she laughed lightly. “Of course, I shall not have to. For I do not intend to marry.”

  Mr. Pomroy shook his head sadly. “I am quite happy to continue as your solicitor, but this scheme of yours - to actually work in the theatre. It - it is indecent. In the name of my friendship for your father I must do all I can to dissuade you.”

  Samantha shook her head stubbornly. “It’s no use, Mr. Pomroy. I am quite set in this plan. Quite.”

  “But, Miss Everett -”

  Fortunately the curtain rose at this moment, and Samantha’s eyes flew to the stage. The play was about to begin! She leaned forward in anticipation. There, alone on the stage, stood the deformed figure of the hunchbacked Richard. The noise from the boxes decreased in volume, and for a moment a sort of hush spread over the theatre as the figure silently rubbed his hands together. Then Kean began. “Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this sun of York,/And all the clouds that low’rd upon our house/In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”

  Samantha strained to hear the words so softly spoken. Kean seemed not to recognize the existence of the audience at all. He was all he said of himself. “I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,/Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,/Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time/Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,/And that so lamely and unfashionable/That dogs bark at me as I halt by them-/ ... since I cannot prove a lover/To entertain these fair well-spoken days,/I am determined to prove a villain/And hate the idle pleasures of these days.”

  Samantha found she was holding her breath. Such wickedness was Richard’s, and yet - yet somehow the man on the stage compelled her to feel compassion. How difficult it must have been to be part of a royal family and to be so misshapen, so obviously physically ill-suited to the role.

  Her mind suddenly presented her with a picture of Roxbury’s dark face. There was something regal about it, a sense of inner power. As Kean continued his soliloquy, Samantha dismissed the vision of Roxbury’s face. He was not going to interfere with her enjoyment of the play.

  She sat engrossed as Richard’s machinations unfolded before her. When he interrupted Lady Anne as she followed the king’s corpse to the burial ground and began to woo the woman whose husband and father-in-law both he had murdered, Samantha could only marvel. An enchanting smile played about his lips; he bowed his head in courteous humility; his voice was such that no common mind could resist. Even knowing his character as she did, and his devilish plans, Samantha felt herself swayed and could not say for sure that she herself would not have succumbed. He was so confident, easy and unaffected, earnest and expressive. It was a wonderful exhibition of villainy at its smoothest and most insinuating. And for the first time Samantha realized how the real Anne could have been beguiled.

  If Roxbury had said to Samantha in honeyed tones, “I killed, but ‘twas thy beauty that provoked me ... ‘Twas thy heavenly face that set me on,” would she have believed him? Quite possibly, she told herself, and then, annoyed that the earl had again intruded into her mind, she brought her attention back to the action before her. It was silly to let that little scene at the inn rankle so. Lord Roxbury meant nothing to her, nothing at all.

  She managed to keep him from marring her enjoyment of the play, but when the curtain fell at intermission, she was dismayed to find that her eyes were searching the boxes for some sign of that darkly handsome face. It was handsome, there was no point in denying that, but since she was not interested in men or marriage, Samantha could only surmise that the haughty Roxbury’s frequent intrusions into her thoughts were caused by the insult of his statement about her plainness. Not that Samantha set herself up to be a beauty. No, indeed. But to say that she was plain, in such a condescending way, and in her hearing too, certainly spoke of a lamentable lack of manners. Perhaps if she could meet the man once more, meet him and cut him dead, she would feel vindicated. Then she would cease to be harassed by his memory. Yes, she thought, that was the solution.

  Beside her Mr. Pomroy spoke. “And what do you think of the great man?”

  Samantha turned toward the solicitor. “He is very good.” Her eyes glowed with her enthusiasm. “I have read the play countless times. I often read aloud to Papa, you know. But I never realized what a consummate villain Shakespeare had created.”

  “He does much better than either Cooke or Kemble in that scene with Anne,” said Mr. Pomroy, obviously more at ease with this subject than their previous one. “Kemble whined it. Not at all attractive. And Cooke was harsh and coarse. Unkingly. No, Kean is the best by far. And you saw the business with his hands in the opening soliloquy?”

  “Yes, it was so fitting.”

  “That’s his own innovation. Nobody’s done it that way before.” Mr. Pomroy was clearly pleased at his ability to impart such tidbits to her.

  “I have never seen a play before tonight,” said Samantha. “So I do not quite understand the things the critics wrote. One, I remember, said a great deal about Kean’s soliloquy being done differently, but it seems so natural to me that I cannot imagine it being done any other way.”

  Mr. Pomroy almost swelled with pride. “In the past most actors have played this scene to the audience, and sometimes with a deal of pomposity and strident declaimer. You noticed that Kean several times turned his back on us.”

  “Yes, it seemed just right.”

  “Well, some people object to such a thing. They say it doesn’t show respect for the audience.”

  “How silly,” said Samantha. “He does it all so perfectly. I don’t see how anyone can possibly complain.”

  “Critics can always find something to carp at,” replied Mr. Pomroy with a benevolent smile. “Even with so great a man as Kean.”

  Samantha frowned thoughtfully. “I should think that people privileged to be close to the theatre would be more generous.”

  Mr. Pomroy’s smile reflected his amusement at such innocence. “Have you never observed that it is the nature of human beings to remember wit rather than praise?”

  Samantha considered this. “I have not given the subject much thought,” she finally replied.

  “People are such that the sharp witticism is retained in our memories much longer than the banal pleasantry.”

  “Yes,” agreed Samantha. “I suppose that is true.” She recalled the Earl of Roxbury’s “a trifle plain.” “Criticism is always remembered longer than praise, even if it isn’t witty.”

  “Quite so.” Mr. Pomroy beamed. “And critics, you must understand, depend on being remembered. How can a man justify his position if no one even remembers what he has said?”

  “And so the critic makes his place in the world by writing what will be remembered,” replied Samantha.

  “Very true,” said Mr. Pomroy. “But I suppose that we cannot blame him. All of us must make our way in the world. And the critic’s life is not the easiest.” His voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why, Leigh Hunt was even imprisoned.”

  “For a play review?” Samantha’s expression revealed her astonishment.

  “No, no. He -” Mr. Pomroy looked in both directions and lowered his voice still further. “He said some scurrilous things about the Prince Regent.”

  Samantha would dearly have loved to pursue this subject further, but poor Mr. Pomroy looked so nervous that she forbore from asking him any more questions, merely saying quietly, “I see,” and turning her attention back to the theatre.

  A commotion in Harriette Wilson’s box caused her to look that way and there, just entering, was the Earl of Rox
bury. He wore a corbeau-colored coat with covered buttons, black silk Florentine breeches, black silk stockings, and slippers. His waistcoat of white marcella was topped by a highly starched cravat, and he held his chapeau bras under his arm. In spite of the height of his cravat and the impeccably tight fit of his clothes, the earl moved with the grace of a wild animal, an animal very much at ease in its surroundings. A cat, thought Samantha, a great jungle cat such as one saw in the Zoological Gardens, a great cat that moved with studied grace and saw all the world as an extension of its own domain. Yes, that was a very adequate description of the toplofty earl.

  Much as she despised the man, she found herself watching in fascination as he moved forward and bent over Harriette Wilson’s gloved hand. He had polish, Samantha thought with a grim smile. And he was obviously well-known to the rest of the female occupants of the box, who one and all greeted him with smiles of pleasure.

  Samantha, recalling her earlier wish for an opportunity to cut the man dead, instinctively drew back. In her plain muslin gown, with her hair pulled back and no jewels, she was no competition for the lovely and vivacious Harriette. Samantha ventured to guess that he had never called any of those women plain. Then she grew angry with herself. She was paying far too much attention to a chance remark, which by now the earl himself had forgotten. She scolded herself roundly; she had not come to London to waste her time fretting over insults, no matter how irritating they might be. And, as if to second this resolution, the curtain rose again. Samantha yielded herself to the play once more.

  She marveled at Kean’s artistry through the rest of the play, and when the curtain fell on a dead Richard and a Richmond who spoke of uniting the White Rose and the Red, tears stood out in her eyes. How much courage had Kean imbued his Richard with, fighting on and on in the face of complete defeat, even while in the throes of death. Particularly pathetic to Samantha were the deadly-meaning passes that he continued to make with his sword arm even after the sword had been struck from his fingers.

  For a few moments she kept her face averted from Mr. Pomroy. She needed a few seconds to overcome the sad feelings that were assailing her.