Wicked Company (28 page)
“That’s absurd…” Sophie replied faintly.
Dr. Monro began pacing circles around them, his voice rising with each step as he pointed an accusing finger at her.
“Sophie McGann… of course!” He laughed harshly, his tone confirming his suspicion that she was, indeed, the author known as “Melancholia.” “Who else could write so knowledgeably of our advanced methods here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sophie replied, feeling panic rising in her throat with every word she spoke. “I… a mere
female…
challenging the medical theories of the great Doctor Monro! No one would believe such accusations!”
“You’d be wise never to come here again,” he warned. “And just wait and see if I don’t bring an action against such outrageous libel!”
Without further hesitation, Sophie tugged at Lorna’s sleeve and the two young women raced for the door. Gingerly they ran down the ice-slicked lane that led to Moorgate and never looked back until they reached the waiting coach.
***
“Here’s the k-key to the s-shop,” Sophie stammered, her teeth chattering in the chill morning air as she watched the coachman’s assistant at the Saracen’s Head on Ludgate Hill hoist her trunk to the roof of the conveyance about to pull out of the stable yard. “When you think ’tis s-safe, open the doors for business. I’ll share all p-profits with you equally while I’m gone.”
“Surely Dr. Monro is all bluff and bluster,” Lorna replied reassuringly, taking the key from Sophie’s frozen fingers and drawing her own warm woolen cloak tighter under her chin. “He has no real proof against you and has as much to fear as you do, dredging all this up again.”
“I can’t risk it,” Sophie replied, shivering at the memory of her father languishing in the Tolbooth because the influential Lord Lemore had goaded the church authorities into punitive action.
“I’ll write you as soon as I think the tumult’s died down,” Lorna soothed.
“And don’t forget to tell George Garrick I’ve been called home to Edinburgh on a family emergency and have left you in charge,” Sophie added anxiously. “If you simply follow those written instructions I left on my desk, you’ll not have any problems producing the playbills. Get Mary Ann Skene or someone to sell them for you the nights you’re dancing at the theater.”
“I don’t know much about operating that printing press,” Lorna replied, but the look of dismay spreading across her friend’s face caused her to add, “but I’ll do my best, Sophie… I promise.”
“On board with ye, lass!” exclaimed the driver, wrapped to his bushy eyebrows in a knitted muffler. He held out his mitted hand to receive Sophie’s pound and five shillings, a sum that depleted the reserves in her purse to under two pounds total. “We’ve got to reach the inn at Newbury by dusk,” he advised.
A gaggle of some five additional passengers trundled toward the
Flying Machine,
a large coach with piles of luggage strapped to its roof.
“Thank you so much, Lorna,” Sophie said in a rush, giving her a quick hug. “A true friend, you are.”
“And so are you,” the slender young dancer replied. “Keep safe and Godspeed.”
Sophie settled in beside two beefy middle-aged women, both complaining of gout while discussing the merits of drinking mineral water and floating in hot baths with their fellow sufferers. An arthritic gentleman accompanied by his surly looking son sat facing them, prompting Sophie to turn away and peer out the window. She leaned forward to wave at Lorna with as much cheer as she could muster, comforting herself with the knowledge that Dr. Monro would not have been able to complain to any governmental official until two days after Christmas, which meant later this day.
The coach driver shouted at his team of horses from his perch overhead. The enormous vehicle groaned and then lurched forward, heading toward Kensington and the Hammersmith Road. Despite all the worries besetting her, Sophie felt her spirits lift. If her Guardian Angel couldn’t come to her… she would go to him.
***
Less than thirty-six hours and eighty miles later, Sophie had counted the last villages leading to her destination. Overton, Black Dog Hill, Chippenham, and Box all whizzed by the coach window, until finally she caught a glimpse of a series of hills dotted with houses made of honey-colored stone. The coach seesawed along the rugged road still sheened with frost, but fortunately no snow had fallen during the journey from London to slow them down.
As they approached the outskirts of the city ahead, Sophie marveled at the amount of building that appeared to be in progress. The coach crossed the river Avon and rumbled down the last stretch of the Bath-to-London Road, passing beside an enormous circle of buildings, elegant even in their half-completed state.
“That’s the Bath Circus that John Wood the Elder designed… the one his son, John the Younger is constructing,” remarked Mrs. Sims, one of the plump matrons who apparently enjoyed serving as tour guide. “’Tis a bit far from the baths, but already the
ton
seem interested in leasing rooms in the section that’s now finished.”
Sophie stared, awestruck, at a gracefully curved edifice that would eventually form a perfect circle.
“It puts me in mind of engravings I’ve seen of a Roman amphitheater,” she said in a breath.
“Aye.” Mrs. Sims nodded. “’Tis said that the elder John Wood found inspiration from that Italian architect… Pa-Pa—”
“Palladio?” Sophie asked, recalling the book on Italy her father had sold to James Boswell.
“That’s it! That Palladio fellow…”
The building was constructed out of the city’s characteristic Bath stone, a soft local limestone that conferred a warm, golden aura on the small metropolis. Sophie took in a long breath and exhaled. Bath must be one of the most beautiful cities in the
world,
she thought happily. Her excitement at having dared to come to such an unknown place bolstered her spirits.
The coach route led them eventually past the Avon to a pretty square known as the Orange Grove. Then they rolled down Cheap Street where Sophie spotted a startling array of shops—hatters, hosiers, goldsmiths, watchmakers, linen drapers, china-and-glass merchants, circulating libraries, confectioners, silk emporiums, shoemakers, stationers, and purveyors of every commodity from cheese to tallow candles. Obviously, Bath was a shopper’s paradise, and it impressed her that such a small city could offer holiday makers, inveterate gamblers, and recuperating invalids such an extraordinary array of quality goods.
Soon the coach turned into Stall Street and pitched to a halt in front of a public lodging house called The Bear Inn. It was midmorning and as Sophie stared out of the carriage window, scores of sedan chairs bearing occupants wrapped in blankets were being transported hither and yon.
“They’ve just come from soaking in the baths and drinking the waters in the Pump Room over there,” Mrs. Sims informed her. The building in question was situated across from the Gothic Abbey that rose to dramatic heights in the middle of a large square nearby. Sophie could hear lively music drifting from the chamber where the medicinal waters were dispensed, and she wondered at such levity being indulged in so early in the day. “Now, they’re off to their breakfasts, as indeed, we shall be in a trice,” Mrs. Sims stated with satisfaction. “’Tis been a pleasure traveling with you, my dear. Where are your lodgings?”
“On P-Pierpont Place, I believe,” Sophie stuttered, the reality of arriving unannounced on Hunter’s doorstep permeating her consciousness. “I’ll be staying with a family friend,” she added bravely.
“Well, I’ll be watching for you, my dear,” the matron said with a smile. “Everyone knows everyone in Bath.”
Sophie made arrangements to store her trunk temporarily at the Bear Inn and wandered across the large square that was dominated by Bath Abbey. She craned her neck, mesmerized by the building’s soaring towers and flying buttresses, marveling at its size. Having secured directions to the Orchard Street Theater from a pair of elegantly attired ladies out for a morning stroll, Sophie threaded her way past Sally Lunn’s bun shop. She found herself on Pierpont Street next to a columned passageway that led to Pierpont Place and a two-story building with a door painted red marked “Number 6”: Hunter’s lodgings.
Her heart beat faster as she passed it by without hesitating. Instead, she continued down the narrowing road, turning sharp left into Orchard Street. With some relief she saw at the end of the lane a solid-looking structure that could only be the Orchard Street Theater.
It was eleven forty-five, near the hour when morning rehearsals would be concluding and the players pausing for refreshments. She halted her progress in front of the theater, noting its small size in comparison with Drury Lane. Her pulse began to race at the sight of a large playbill announcing productions of
The Jealous Wife
and
The Devil to Pay
due in January. Sure enough, Hunter Robertson’s name was listed prominently among the cast members. The next moment, however, her throat constricted and she felt her breath shorten. Playing opposite Hunter in
The Jealous Wife
was the name “Mrs. Piggott.” Before Sophie could adjust to the notion that her erstwhile nemesis had fled to Bath instead of Dublin after her battle at Drury Lane, a side door swung open suddenly and a score of chattering players poured into the narrow street.
Immediately, Sophie spotted Hunter, towering head and shoulders above the others. He threw back his dark blond head and laughed at something one of his companions had remarked. Mavis Piggott was strolling just behind him and exchanged glances with Sophie before Hunter was even aware of her presence. Without batting an eye, the tall, striking actress nudged Hunter’s arm and possessively slipped her own in its crook.
“Sink me, darling, but isn’t that the little London chit Sophie McGann?” she said loudly, garnering the attention of the small crowd surrounding her.
A look of utter amazement washed over Hunter’s handsome features and he stood rooted to the spot.
“Sophie! Pray, what in the world are
you
doing in Bath?” he demanded.
“’Tis nearly the New Year,” Sophie retorted, flushing scarlet and feeling utterly foolish. “I felt in need of a change of scene,” she announced with as much bravado as she could summon to her trembling lips.
The group surrounding the trio of Hunter, Sophie, and Mavis began whispering and a few snickers could be heard.
“Well, well, Robertson,” said a young man whose attractive appearance bespoke his profession, “seems you have your hands full.
Two
lovely ladies begging your attention! May I be of any assistance?” he asked mockingly.
“Aye,” Hunter replied grimly, “you could escort Mrs. Piggott with the rest of the company to the eating house on Kingsmead, if you would be so kind.”
“Delighted to be of service, old boy,” the actor replied jocularly, “and in return, I would ask that you introduce me to your newest friend.”
That remark prompted suppressed laughter all around and Sophie shrank with mortification. Mavis was glaring openly at her and Sophie was flooded with remorse that she had ever thought to seek safety with Hunter. Since she had first met him, she had seen he was a favorite with the ladies, and now he was behaving true to form in his adopted city. She wished for nothing so much as to disappear beneath the cobbled stones on which she stood in the cold light of this wintery day.
“Sophie,” Hunter said with an annoyed glance in the direction of his fellow actor, “may I present Geoffrey Bannister, our leading player? Bannister, this is Sophie McGann, whom I have known since she was a wee bairn in Edinburgh.”
“She’s no ‘bairn’ now,” Bannister said with an appreciative smile. This reaction bolstered Sophie’s spirits somewhat, for she had always felt her looks mousy in comparison to Mavis’s dramatic face and figure. “Welcome to Bath, Miss McGann.”
“Thank you,” Sophie murmured, casting her eyes down to study the tips of her shoes.
Why did I ever think to come here?
she mourned silently. She racked her brains for a graceful way to make a speedy exit, but Geoffrey Bannister had already tucked Mavis’s arm in his and was nearly dragging the woman down the road and away from the theater. She looked back at Sophie with a murderous glance.
“Shall I see you later?’’ she demanded of Hunter, almost shouting to be heard.
But Hunter wasn’t listening. He grabbed Sophie’s hand and strode down Orchard Street in the opposite direction, retracing the route his newly arrived visitor had trod just moments earlier.
At the red enameled door marked Number 6, just around the corner from the theater, he hauled a key from his coat pocket, turned it roughly in the lock, and unceremoniously escorted Sophie inside.
Twelve
Silently, Sophie watched Hunter strike a flint, igniting the coals in a fireplace that provided his sitting room with its only source of heat. Dim wintery light suffused the small chamber that, from the look of the rumpled bedding on the unmade four-poster standing in the corner, also served as his sleeping quarters. Her eyes rested on the broad expanse of his back as he knelt before the hearth. She dreaded the condemnation he would surely heap on her when he finished his task and rose to his feet.
