Love in Disguise (4 page)

So upset was Fancy by the events of the evening that when Henry arrived with two grooms to escort her to her carriage, she had no word of censure for that faithful servant. Indeed, once in the coach she laid her pounding head against his shoulder and whimpered, “Oh, Henry, it was awful. They’ve gone mad - all of them.”

Henry spoke the soothing words he knew she wanted to hear. “It’ll blow over. You’ll see. Things’ll be back right afore long.”

But even this attempt at comfort was interrupted by the raucous voices of rioters marching down the pavement four and five abreast.

Fancy peered out her window. “They’re pushing people into the kennels, Henry! Oh, it’s horrible.”

“Don’t look. Miss Fancy. We’re safe enough in here. Come now, we’ll be home soon in St. James’s Square. There’s no call to worry yourself.”

True to Henry’s word they reached home safely, and as she quitted the carriage Fancy wondered what would happen now. Would they do
Richard III
on the twentieth as advertised?

  What a reception Uncle George would get, she thought. Surely he had never faced an audience like that. A little fear nagged at her. She hoped that Uncle George would not have been too liberally at the bottle before his performance.  Certainly Mr. Kemble wasn’t at all happy that Uncle George had ignored rehearsals.

He was a great actor, George Frederick Cooke, especially good in
Richard III.
And, of course, he was not really her uncle. But he had been a friend of Mama’s in the old days and he had kept up his interest in Fancy and her career.

As Ethel helped her weary mistress undress for bed, she too heard about the terrible behavior of the crowd. She clicked her tongue, tucked Fancy into bed like a child, and said, “Don’t you be worrying none. They’ll probably close down for a while. Ain’t no use trying to act for a crowd like that.”

But two days later
Richard III
was still scheduled and Fancy insisted that her place was at the theater. This was her chance, she told the worried pair who tried to dissuade her.

“Mr. Kemble hired me and he expects me to be there,” she said. “I’m not going to ruin my career because some fools want to riot.”

As usual Fancy got her way, but she was not sorry for the two stout grooms or the comforting presence of Henry. “I’ll be back to fetch you,” he said. “And you just wait in the dressing room till I come for you.”

“Yes, Henry, I will. Don’t worry yourself now. I’ll be all right.”

Henry was not too sure of this, but he felt there was little he could do at the moment. And, since he would be there to see her safely home through the mob, he was satisfied.

Fancy hurried into makeup and costume and went looking for Uncle George. She had not found it surprising that he hadn’t come to the house on St. James’s Square even though she had sent him a letter telling him all about it. For one thing he may well have not had the money to pay for the letter’s delivery.
Or he may have read it and then forgotten it. When he was bosky, Uncle George had a very poor memory, as she well knew. Or he may have not wanted to come into the neighborhood of the
haut ton.

But, at any rate, she
had
let him know of her good fortune and she looked forward to seeing him. She had not even been particularly surprised to find that he ignored rehearsals. An actor of his caliber could well do that. But she hoped that this night, at least, he would not be in his cups.

Or, if he were, that the boxkeeper, John Brandon, had succeeded in “doctoring” him up. Fancy had heard Mr. Kemble remark, in a tone of gratitude, that, without Brandon, Cooke would have failed to take his place on stage much more often.

It was difficult enough for a sober man to face that horrible crowd, but for one in his altitudes - Fancy frowned as she made her way toward the men’s dressing rooms.

A knock on the door brought another actor who replied that Cooke would meet her in the greenroom shortly. So Fancy, her anxiety still unrelieved, made her way to the greenroom and paced restlessly through the empty room. Once she stopped to survey herself in the great gilded mirror, but the face and figure that looked back at her showed no sign of aging. She wrinkled up her nose and announced pertly, “So much for you, milord.”

A hearty laugh from the doorway made her turn. There stood Cooke in costume for Richard. “Uncle George!” cried Fancy, and raced across the room to throw herself into his open arms.

In a moment he held her off. “Come, come, a great hulking girl like you has no business in the arms of an old rogue like me.”

“Uncle George,” protested Fancy. “You are being silly. Did you get my letter?”

Cooke nodded. “Of course I did. Glad to hear of your good fortune. Wager the neighbors are not, though.”

Fancy managed a little laugh. “Actually they are not bad. The ladies cut me on the street, but the gentlemen are quite kind.”

Cooke snorted. “I expect so. A beauty like you.” He frowned at her. “I trust you’ve remained a good girl.”

“Uncle George!” Fancy flushed. “You know I have no taste for men.”

Cooke ran a hand through his dark hair. “You’re human, m’girl. Remember that. It’s just that beauty like yours ought to get a good price.”

Fancy flushed again. “Uncle George, you make me sound like a piece of merchandise.” She was very much aware of the odor of rum on his breath, but his eyes seemed all right.

 “You’d best take a sensible view of the world, Fancy, m’girl. There are those with beauty and those willing to buy it. We’ve each got to use what gifts we have.”

Fancy shook her head. “You mistake me, Uncle George. I do not intend to marry or - anything else. The theater is my life.”

Cooke shook his head. “For now, m’dear. But there’ll be a man, I don’t doubt it. For you’ve your mama’s blood in you.”

Fancy dropped her eyes in confusion. She had always suspected that Uncle George had loved Mama in those long ago days before she had met Papa. And perhaps Mama had even cared for him - though not in the same way she loved Papa. But there was no opportunity for her to say more for the greenroom began to fill up with players, all talking to each other in an effort to keep up their spirits, and she knew that the curtain would soon go up.

Fancy, watching Uncle George laugh and joke with the others, knew that in a few moments, when he moved onto the stage, he would become an evil, dissimulating man, bent and deformed. And that deformity would not be indicated just by the padded hump on his back, but by the very cast of his features.

And she herself, when she faced him as Lady Anne, widow of the Edward he had murdered, would be entirely that Anne. There, on the stage, in the magic of the footlights, Fancy and Uncle George would cease to exist and there would be only the beautiful young woman and the evil, cunning Richard whose wily words so appealed to her vanity that she would finally consent to become wife to a man she had every cause to hate and despise.

As everyone scurried to their places, ready for the first act, Fancy felt her heart beating in her throat. The crowd out there was ugly, just as ugly as the one last night and the night before. And Uncle George had had quite a bit to drink. If he should get angry at them for refusing to listen - a shudder ran over Fancy. Then she scolded herself. Uncle George was a veteran of the stage. Nothing would shake his sense of presence.

As the curtain went up on the scene of a London street, Fancy watched Cooke become the wicked hunchback and enter to impart to the audience his evil machinations. They greeted him first with applause, to indicate that their quarrel was not with him but with Kemble. And then they began to hiss. “Off! Off!”

Not a word that Cooke spoke reached their ears. Groans and catcalls resounded throughout the house. Banners and placards were everywhere evident. Fancy caught her breath as she read one which had just been hoisted.

COOKE DESERVES OUR PITY. KEMBLE OUR CONTEMPT.

Fancy held her breath. If Cooke got his back up, he might let go at the audience. But as the act continued she slowly released her breath. Uncle George seemed oblivious to the audience. They did not exist for him. And shortly, when it came her turn to go on, Fancy, too, was able to ignore the disturbances out front.

After Richard and Anne had exchanged insults and the cunning Richard had given the lady the opportunity to kill him, an opportunity he knew she would not be able to avail herself of, when she had spit upon him and been beguiled, and finally, left her place in the mourning procession of Henry VI and exited to wait at Crosby House for the pseudo-penitent Richard, Fancy stood again in the wings, exhausted. Her first big scene in London was over. And no one had even heard it.

The play progressed, the catcalls and groans, hoots and hisses, never abating. Now and then a port horn echoed through the house and then suddenly the theater was full of pigeons, flying distractedly, landing here and there in confusion.

Between acts Fancy met Uncle George coming back from his dressing room and the unnatural shine in his eyes told her plainly that he had been at his bottle. She really could not blame him. That audience was a horror to face and he was on stage almost constantly. That had to be very tiring. But the gin, or whatever it was, that Uncle George had been sampling, would not help. And Fancy knew from experience that Cooke might be doing his part perfectly, even when under the influence, and then, very suddenly snap and begin to harangue the audience in the lewdest of language. Such conduct could be very dangerous with a crowd like this.

Though her first scene was her big one and she would not need to appear again for some time, Fancy continued to wait in the wings, watching. The second act had barely begun when from one of the boxes came the voice of a man. The crowd hushed to listen. Fancy recognized the man as a lawyer, one of the lawyer kind, as Henry would say. He launched into a great tirade, alternating abuse of Kemble and Siddons with allusions to Catalani and others. The British stage should not be contaminated by Italian depravity and French duplicity, he said.

Fancy could hardly believe her ears. Surely the rioters could not blame a performer for seeking the best salary possible. Other placards were hoisted.

MOUNTAINS AND DICKENS, NO CATS NO KITTENS.

Placards and banners hung everywhere over the boxes. One sign announced that together the Kembles and Madame Catalani would that season earn 25,575 pounds. Certainly, thought Fancy, that
was
an awful lot. But Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were greats; they had been many years in the theater. And everyone knew that Madame Catalani, great singer that she was, was all the rage in London.

Fancy had not noticed any change in the level of noise from the audience and orange peels, nut shells, apple cores, and other such refuse that had been hitting the stage from time to time, when suddenly Cooke whirled and faced the audience.

Fancy caught her breath. It had happened! Something had precipitated it and Uncle George had cast aside his role and was going to give his tormentors a dressing down. He advanced right to the edge of the stage, and, as Fancy watched, his shoulders went back and he raised his fist. The clamor in the pit grew louder and more paper and orange peels came sailing through the air.

And then Fancy saw what Cooke, intent on a specific part of the audience, did not. A band of ruffians was advancing and had almost reached the orchestra. As they pushed aside the musicians, Fancy flew onto the stage. Desperately she pulled at the irate Cooke who was thundering out tremendous lewd oaths and threatening the audience with every known obscenity.

“Uncle George,” she cried. “Please!” But her words could not be heard over the tumult, and then, just as the rioters reached the stage, Cooke turned and pushed away what he apparently thought was another rioter.

Fancy, knocked from her feet by the force of his blow, saw the expression of chagrin on his face as he recognized what he had done. And then the terror hit her, for she fell into the arms of the rioters, who, shouting loudly, began to bear her back into the pit.

Fancy fought her panic. These were dangerous men, highly wrought up, who thought it a great joke to pass her struggling body back and forth high in the air above their heads. And, suspended as she was, to struggle was only to increase her danger.

She was losing her battle with panic, however, for if they decided to continue on out of the theater she could expect little mercy at the hands of such men. Suddenly the cries and shouts changed their tone. The rioters beneath her began to break and run. Those in front stopped suddenly as though facing an obstacle. For a moment those who held Fancy aloft hesitated. As the room slowed its whirling she had a glimpse of a dark scarred face and a laughing fair one. And suddenly the ground came up to meet her. She felt her head strike something hard and then there was nothing but darkness.

Slowly Fancy fought her way up out of the darkness. It was comfortable there, cool and safe. She did not want to leave it. But insistently something kept pulling her back to consciousness. Finally she realized that someone was repeating her name.  “Fancy, Fancy,” he was saying. And then there was something cool on her forehead. It was strange about that voice, she thought dreamily. She had heard it before, surely she had. But now the tone of it was different, softer, caring.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She was lying on the stage, she saw, and someone had put something soft under her head to cushion it. She felt a button pressing against her neck.

“That’s better,” said the same voice, now in a gruffer tone. Slowly Fancy turned her head and met the dark sardonic eyes of the Earl of Morgane. He knelt beside her, one hand on the cloth that lay on her brow. Slowly Fancy’s brain took in the fact that he was coatless. His coat! It was his coat under her head. She made a movement to rise and was unceremoniously thrust down again.

“Just a moment, hothead,” said Morgane. “You’ve taken quite a crack on that thick skull of yours. Now lie still.”

Beside Morgane’s face appeared the fair one she had glimpsed earlier. “Who -?” She tried to form the words with dry lips.