Secret Lament (7 page)

[Reminiscences of a theatre manager by Thomas Keregan (London: published for the Author, 1736)]

We argued over the matter. Claudius Heron is the only gentleman I can argue with for he does it, as he does all things, in a civilised manner. He listens to views contrary to
his own, admits if he is wrong, and gives way if he believes it the right thing to do. Unlike all the gentlemen around us, expounding their own political views to each other and dismissing any
opposing view.

In the end, we agreed on one thing: that the shot had in all probability been intended for Mazzanti. It was too great a coincidence if he had been attacked several times already and then
suffered from a shot meant for me; moreover, the ruffians were clearly out to frighten and torment me, not to kill. The opening of the gateway to the other world alarmed Heron; he agreed that it
was probably caused by a coincidence of events in the two worlds and that, he said, meant that the danger was acute.

“But to Mazzanti,” I said. “Not to myself. I am merely a bystander in this. It is merely that for some reason I can sense the other world where no one else can.”

He nodded. “Then there is an easy solution – keep away from Mrs Jerdoun’s house.”

I kept silent. Quite apart from the fact that I could not tell him why this was impossible, I had once sensed the world opening up in a different place altogether.

Heron was musing on something else. “What is it about Mazzanti, I wonder, that makes him a target?”

“His obnoxious character,” I said tartly. “The man is a self-important charlatan.”

Heron permitted himself one of his rare smiles. “You are an impartial observer, of course.”

I sighed. “No, but an accurate one nevertheless. The man is destined for a violent end.”

“I must meet him. I trust he is not as bad as you paint. I have a great respect for his wife’s abilities.” He cocked his head as we heard the chimes of the Guildhall clock
through the open window. Twelve o’clock. I started.

“I should be at the theatre.” I quickly drank the remains of my coffee. “Forgive me, sir, I must hurry.”

Heron nodded but detained me a moment longer. “Is it worth my while buying tickets for the theatre in Race Week?”

I had never known Heron patronise the theatre – much too trivial an occupation for him. He prefers the Italian opera of Signora Mazzanti to the English opera of her daughter. “Save
your money for the concert the Signora is putting on,” I said. “Unless you simply want to see your friends. The play won’t hold your attention.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll take your advice.”

It was not the sort of weather to rush but I rushed nevertheless, climbing the steep Side from the Sandhill to Mr Usher’s timber yard at the top, not far from the Post Office. I did not
neglect to keep my eyes open for the ruffians, but my talk with Heron had settled my mind somewhat. I had not been the target of the shot, therefore I was not to blame for the injury to Mazzanti,
therefore I could concentrate on my own affairs, and Esther’s.

Just inside the yard, I paused in the shadow of a huge pile of timber, getting my breath back from the steep climb. I was thirsty again, and the sweat was dripping from me. Two or three young
apprentices were swearing over a large tree trunk.

“Complaining, complaining,” said a spirit high above me. “Always complaining. You’d think they didn’t know what sunshine was.”

I started. That business back in March involved one or two very bad spirits and it had shaken me and taken me some time to regain a semblance of trust in them. I still disliked being startled by
them. I squinted up at the timber yard gate. There was an old spirit there who had died run over by a cart. I sighed in relief; no harm in him at all.

“In my day,” he said, “we really had hot summers.”

The shade was beginning to feel surprisingly chill; I shivered. Then, as the voice of the spirit began to fade, I realised what was happening. There are no spirits in that other world –
that is one of the chief differences between that world and ours. I was stepping through again. But why here? Why in the timber yard?

I put out a hand to steady myself against the pile of wood which seemed to exist in both worlds. But in this other world that ran alongside ours, it was already evening – the sun was
sliding down behind the theatre, the last rays winking above the roof; the evening star was gleaming in the turquoise sky. And despite the warmth, a thin drizzle dampened the backs of my hands.

A woman strolled from behind the wood pile: Julia Mazzanti, looking demure and innocent. But there was something different about her. I couldn’t quite fathom what it was. An extra edge of
decisiveness perhaps? A sense of self-assurance unusual in one so young. She was wearing yellow ribbons in her hair – ribbons that had blue flowers scattered across them with a tiny bright
sparkle in the centre of each flower. The young seamstress had finished her delicate task.

The contempt in Julia’s amused eyes was new too.

“Too much to drink, Mr Patterson?” she said mockingly.

But before I could speak, the chill took me again. A momentary darkness, then I was in the hot shade, with the spirit droning above my head and a carter yelling at me to move.

I moved. Wondering what, if anything, the spirit and the carter had seen. Had they seen me disappear for a second or two? Or had they seen nothing at all? What had the Julia in that other world
seen? I could wonder, but not do anything about it – I could hardly ask.

Inside the theatre, there was the usual chaos of people milling about before the beginning of the rehearsal. Mrs Keregan slumped in a chair, yawning hugely and calling for breakfast; young
Richard was concentrating with bit lip on carrying a tray laden with tankards. Two or three lads were hammering at scenery on the stage.

And over by the prompter’s desk a little knot of people fussed over John Mazzanti. His face was purpling with bruises; he exaggerated a limp as he hobbled to a chair. Athalia hovered over
him like a red-haired angel, prettily making him comfortable. Mr Keregan said hopefully that he supposed Mazzanti could not go on.

At the back of the theatre, young Richard was offering a tankard to a scowling Ned Reynolds. Ned took the tankard but didn’t even look at Richard; the boy scurried away, obviously
distressed. Damn Ned, what was he playing at? I strolled across.

“Mazzanti’s still making a fuss, I see.” I contemplated the little knot of people; Mazzanti was saying in a long-suffering tone that he could not in any circumstances let the
company down. Keregan looked disappointed. “Although how the devil a shot to the head can produce a limp, I can’t imagine.”

“You’re behind the times,” Ned said sourly. “That was yesterday’s attack.”

“There’s been another?”

For a moment, I thought him disinclined to tell me. There was a look of bitterness on his handsome face that took my breath away. Ned is a careless fellow, living from day to day with supreme
indifference to such matters as money or rent – a devil-may-care approach that is both engaging and infuriating. But there was an ugliness in his expression that alarmed me.

“You see the hero of the hour,” he said, sneering. “Some fellow tried to break into the Mazzantis’ lodgings last night and damn near killed Julia. But Mazzanti dashed to
the rescue and drove the fellow off.”

I started. Another burglar? Or the same man who had tried to break into Esther’s house?

“And here comes my darling colleague,” Ned said dryly. I began to suspect that he was drunk. I glanced where he was pointing. Julia was pausing in the doorway, charmingly modest,
with downcast eyes. Overdressed perhaps, with too many ribbons and too much lace, but properly white and pink. Except for – yes, those two yellow ribbons in her hair, exact copies of the ones
her counterpart in the other world had been wearing. Though – I squinted for it was difficult to be sure at a distance – were the blue flowers a little paler?

She was hanging on the protective arm of Mr Philip Ord.

Ned Reynolds swore, softly, fluently. “Behold,” he said. “My rival. What d’you reckon, Charlie? Do you think she’ll prefer me to a fortune and high social
position?”

“Prefer you?” I frowned. “Ned, what kind of a joke is this?” I glanced round and saw young Richard, watching us; he looked away quickly.

“Joke, Charlie?” Ned grinned wolfishly. “This is no joke. I intend to marry the lady.”

And as I stared at him open-mouthed, he thrust his empty tankard into my hands and moved in on the little group.

Ned was courting Julia; Philip Ord was courting Julia. I didn’t know which was more unlikely. Ord was hardly going to marry an actress, especially not with Lizzie Saint and her
father’s money in prospect. Yet he was looking at Julia with surprising devotion, and to allow himself to be seen in public with her, even if it was just in the presence of the theatre
company, was surely significant. But as for Ned – the whole idea was preposterous.

Mrs Keregan cackled with laughter from her chair. “Enjoying the show, Charlie boy?”

“I don’t believe it,” I said forcibly.

“Oh, our Ned’s serious all right.” She rubbed her fingers together. “He’s after the money. She’s the worst singer and actress I ever saw, but she knows how to
woo the gentlemen. She’ll make a fortune for her husband – while her looks last at any rate.”

“But Ned…” I trailed off. Some things are acknowledged but never spoken of.

Mrs Keregan was watching with some cynicism. “There’s more than one gentleman with tastes of
that kind
who escapes the attention of the law by marrying.” She cast a
glance at Richard.

“It’ll be a disaster.”

“Oh certainly, but don’t worry about it. Papa will never allow it.”

I looked across to where Mazzanti was still playing the wounded hero. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d approve of Ord, either.”

She crowed. “He’s after a duke, at least!”

That hadn’t been what I meant. “I’m surprised he’s contemplating marriage at all.” The moment Julia married, her income would pass into her husband’s hands,
which meant that John Mazzanti and his wife would be dependent on the Signora’s income. And the Signora was getting older and fatter, I was told.

Mazzanti looked round and saw his daughter, and Ord and Ned facing each other over her pretty little head. The change in him was remarkable. He leapt up, strode across and seized Julia by her
arm. She was distributing her favours equally, it seemed, simpering at both Ord and Ned as Mazzanti raged about so-called gentlemen who took advantage while his back was turned. And – was it
my imagination – or did he have just a touch of desperation about him too?

Mrs Keregan sighed. “That’s no way to handle a girl of her age. It’ll end in disaster, mark my words.”

Mazzanti bore his daughter off, up the stifling theatre towards the stage, calling for the rehearsal to begin. The sunlight through the windows haloed the girl with gold. Mrs Keregan, a much
more mundane figure, extricated herself from her armchair with difficulty, and went off fanning herself furiously with a piece of paper. Ned followed the Mazzantis, still with that predatory air
about him; Ord, more inhibited, or more cautious, fumed impotently at the doorway.

Richard fussed around me, gathering up the empty tankards; his head was down, his shoulder turned. When I spoke, he muttered an incoherent reply. I started to talk to him then Ord interrupted,
strolling across to me with as much insouciance as he could manage. Richard hurried off.

I slid my fiddle from its case, plucked the strings to check its tuning. Ord was gazing about with his usual insolence, but there was an edge of bravado to it. Well, if he was ashamed, so he
should be. I could sympathise with Ned’s plight even if I disliked his idea of using marriage as nothing more than a smokescreen and a source of money; Ord, however, I could only condemn. Not
so much for the idea that he was thinking of taking a mistress – after all, so many men did – but to be courting an actress at the same time as negotiating his engagement was
unfeeling.

Besides Lizzie Saint would get wind of it – someone would tell her. Someone always did.

“Miss Mazzanti is a fine performer,” Ord said, as they began rehearsing some dialogue. I said nothing; there was nothing diplomatic I could say. “As a music-lover, I admire her
greatly.”

He was trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I was outraged that he should be so hypocritical and that he should think me gullible enough to believe him. “She is, of course,” he
added, “not a lady.”

I could not contain myself. “Not like Miss Saint,” I said.

Ord flushed. “Damn it, Patterson, it’s not your place to bandy about the names of ladies!”

He stalked off.

I started to tune up; Mazzanti on the stage swung round angrily and demanded silence. I retreated to a hot little room off the theatre, which at other times Mr Usher used as a counting office.
Richard was in there, cutting up chunks of bread and cheese; he glanced round, coloured, bent over his task. I plucked at the E string of the violin and it broke. Cursing, I loosened the peg to
take off the broken ends.

“Do you think he will marry her?” Richard asked.

I hesitated. “Ord?”

He nodded. “He has lots of money,” he said eagerly. “She’s bound to like that.” He offered a shy smile. “Julia likes money. Those ribbons she’s wearing
– the yellow ones? They have a diamond in the centre of each flower.”

More like paste, I thought cynically, unwinding the last fragments of the broken string at last. “She might marry him, he’ll not marry her.”

“There was talk of it in London.”

“You saw him there?”

He nodded. “He came to the theatre to see Julia.”

“Did he show any partiality for her?”

Richard sniggered. “That’s not what Ned called it.”

“I can imagine,” I said dryly. The new string was proving recalcitrant, refusing to wind round the peg properly. And it was my last spare too.

Richard said again, “Do you think he’ll marry her?” He was plainly not referring to Ord any longer. From the theatre behind us, we heard the tones of Ned’s voice; it was
a love scene with Julia but something had annoyed Ned – the loving words were in distinctly unloving tones. And I couldn’t hear a word from Julia – someone ought to tell her to
speak up.