Wicked Company (30 page)

Sophie gazed at him pensively and then shook her head.

“No, I-I don’t think that would suit.”

“Why not!” Hunter demanded. “’Tis a capital solution to your lack of funds.”

“Because I’d be at the theater every night,” she said softly.

“What’s wrong with
that!”
he protested. “I thought ’twas an excellent part of my plan.”

“I’d see you with Mavis!” she blurted, and then banged her head against the feather pillow, mortified that she’d admitted aloud—and to
him,
of all people—her dread of seeing them together.

“God’s bones, Sophie, I—”

“Don’t say it!”
she interrupted furiously, sitting bolt upright and pulling the bed linen tightly under her arms. “I know, ’tis silly prattle on my part to protest what’s happened between you two… you have my apologies,” she added more calmly, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

Hunter had behaved like a stalwart friend, and she had realized—as she had in the case of Gwen Reardon—that she’d rather have him playing
that
role in her life than none at all.

She addressed him earnestly. “I
must
secure employment and I won’t leave any stone unturned. I’ll visit a few book shops this morning and see what possibilities there might be for me—
and
I will meet you at Orchard Street at the time you say.” She forced herself to smile at him brightly. “You’re more than kind to be willing to speak to your manager, and even kinder to have offered me shelter. I won’t impose any longer than I must.”

His gaze in response to her monologue struck her as uncharacteristically grave, but she supposed he was as disconcerted as she by the awkwardness of their situation.

“’Till one, then,” he said at length. “Come into the foyer of the theater and I’ll meet you there.” He fished a key out of his pocket and placed it on the small table near the fire. “Here… in case you need it,” he added, and turned to depart.

Sophie had barely slipped into her worn blue-and-white striped cotton skirt and white bodice before she heard a key turning in the lock at the front door.

“Hunter?” she said, bending over her open trunk to retrieve a light wool shawl.

“No… not Hunter,” Mavis Piggott replied. “’Tis I.”

Sophie straightened up and turned to stare at the intruder who sauntered into the chamber and pointedly placed the key that had gained her entrance to Hunter’s chambers on a nearby table. Then she opened the doors to a small cabinet, withdrawing a bottle of spirits and two glasses.

“A bit of brandy?” Mavis offered calmly. “I find it so soothing when one is out of sorts.”

Sophie shook her head, sick at heart to have her worst fears confirmed. Mavis possessed her own key to Hunter’s lodgings and was obviously intimately familiar with its furnishings.

“You’ve just missed Hunter,” Sophie said stiffly. “He left for the theater not ten minutes ago.”

“I know,” Mavis drawled, pouring herself two fingers of brandy. “I saw him leave.”

“Then you probably know that I’m seeking employment and will find my own lodgings as soon as I can.”

“I should hope so,” Mavis replied coolly. “With the babe, I don’t think there’d be room for all four of us in here.”

Sophie could not hide her shock, nor mask the pain of her reaction. Mavis continued to stare at her boldly, her back to the fireplace.

“You’re… ?” Sophie asked faintly.

“Yes,” Mavis answered abruptly, “so I imagine you’ll not be surprised to hear that Hunter and I will soon wed.”

“Is there really no ‘Mr.’ Piggott?” she wondered aloud.

“Dead, I’m afraid,” Mavis replied. “So sad—I was barely a bride.”

“And Hunter knows of the bairn?” Sophie asked.

“Not yet, but ’twill not change things. In fact, I imagine ’twill hasten them along!” Mavis laughed and took a generous gulp of brandy. “I’m surprised he did not tell you of our… ah… arrangement.” She stared steadily at Sophie, seeming to relish her rival’s acute discomfort. “But then, he’s a man, and men don’t handle these situations very gracefully, do they?”

“He didn’t need to tell me,” Sophie replied in a strained voice. “I realized how the land lay the moment I saw you together in front of the theater.”

“Perceptive little waif, aren’t you now?” Mavis snapped. “Well,” she added, glancing over at the bed Hunter had devised for himself near the fireplace, “I called on you this morning to spare you further embarrassment. I am glad to hear you seek employment and other lodgings. Under the circumstances, ’tis only fitting.”

And without further comment, Mavis Piggott drank the last of her brandy and swept out the door.

Sophie remained rooted to the spot, staring after her. The actress was carrying Hunter’s
child,
she mourned silently, sensing that her intricate web of cherished daydreams had just been ripped to shreds.

***

Sophie spent a discouraging morning calling on various printers and booksellers, including a Mr. Leake at his circulating library in Terrace Walk.

“Have you no references, Miss? No one who’ll vouch for your printing skills?” Mr. Leake inquired gruffly. “Not that I’ve ever heard of a lass your age running a press. A widow lady, mayhap, but not a slip of a girl.”

“Hunter Robertson, at the Orchard Street Theater, can vouch for me, sir,” Sophie said brightly.

“
A
player?”
Mr. Leake replied disdainfully. “’Tis like asking a vagabond to swear you won’t pick my pocket. Sorry, miss. I’ve got customers to attend to. I bid you good day.”

By one o’clock, Sophie was chilled to the bone by the sharp wind that swept off the river Avon and feeling dreadfully dispirited. She trudged down Orchard Street to the theater and stared dumbly at the various doors marked “Gallery,” “Pit,” and “Boxes.” The door that was unmarked did, indeed, lead into a front foyer. Once inside, she stood in a darkened corner shivering until Hunter appeared, looking harried and out of sorts.

“Ah… there you are,” he exclaimed, striding quickly to her side. “Come on… Mr. Arthur will see you.” He paused and draped her shawl more becomingly around her shoulders and smoothed a wayward strand of auburn hair from off her brow. “You’ll do. Now smile prettily at the gentleman, Sophie. ’Tis good for business.”

And without further instructions, he seized her hand and strode purposefully through the auditorium, up a small flight of stairs, and through the backstage area to an office at the rear of the building.

After introductions were made, the rotund John Arthur, a one-time comedian, surveyed her from head to toe.

“Could be more buxom for my taste,” Mr. Arthur commented bluntly as if Sophie were somewhere else, “but she’s pretty enough, I suppose. Take her to wardrobe and fit her out in one of those milkmaid gowns.” He eyed her chest area critically. “Tell Maude to rig up a corselet…
that
might push ’em up a bit.” He waved a plump hand distractedly. “You’ll be working with Nancy Quinn. Be here five o’clock sharp on the nights we play.”

“Yes sir,” Sophie said quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

Sophie and Hunter moved toward the door.

“Oh, Robertson… tell Mrs. Piggott that if she doesn’t do us the honor of rehearsing without the book by Wednesday, she’ll be replaced by Miss Reed. Tell her I’ve seen her scribbling that play when she should be studying her role. I’m not paying her to be a bleeding scribe.
Tell her!”

“Yes, sir,” Hunter said and walked quickly out of the manager’s office with Sophie in tow.

“For a comedian, he’s not very amusing,” Sophie said in a low voice as Hunter ushered her down a dark passageway and into a room with a variety of costumes hanging on wall pegs.

An ancient crone sat stitching a swath of moth-eaten ermine onto a velvet cloak in the dim light of the wardrobe chamber.

“Maude,” announced Hunter, “this is Sophie McGann, our new Orange Girl. Arthur says to dress her as a milkmaid. Oh, and give her one of those corselet contraptions to push up her breasts so
they’ll
look like oranges.”

“Hunter!”
Sophie exclaimed.

Hunter shrugged, grinning.

“’Tis not to
my
taste,” he retorted, referring to Mr. Arthur’s earlier assessment of Sophie’s anatomical shortcomings, “but the man appreciates large mammaries… what can we do?”

Sophie giggled in spite of herself and Hunter smiled, seeing that her good humor had returned. She followed the wardrobe mistress to a corner where she was given an orange-and-white striped skirt with several gauze petticoats and a skimpy white blouse with a matching orange laced corset that fitted tightly around her rib cage. The ensemble did, indeed, thrust her breasts to their highest possible elevation. When she stepped from behind the changing screen, Hunter emitted a low whistle.

“Well… my, my…” he said with a lascivious smirk. “’Tis a miracle of engineering, my dear, but quite effective. You’re bound to make those macaronis take notice, so beware!”

“I… c-can… hardly
breathe!”
she gulped.

“Good,” Hunter retorted. “That means ’twill be difficult for you to
talk
and you’ll find yourself in less trouble. Would you care to change out of those clothes and take some refreshment with me? I’ve an hour or two free.”

Before Sophie could answer, Mavis Piggott suddenly entered the room. Hastily, the younger woman retreated behind the changing screen.

“Oh, Hunter…. there you are!” she heard Mavis say.

“You’re not due for a fitting as far as I know,” Hunter replied tersely.

“No, but you’re long overdue to take me to the Pump Room. ’Tis been ages since we went there, darling,” she cajoled him. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. We could drink the waters and then have a nice afternoon tea. Besides, I have something
most
important to tell you.”

“I’m afraid I—”

“Thank you so much for all your help, Hunter,” Sophie interjected brightly, emerging once again from behind the screen. “Oh, hello, Mavis. I’ll just be on my way.”

And before Hunter could stop her, she bolted for the door, leaving him to arrange to take his midday meal with the mother of his child. In Sophie’s haste to escape out of earshot, she nearly collided with a middle-aged gentleman at the end of the passageway that led to the stage door.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir,” Sophie said, clutching his arm to regain her balance.

“’Tis quite all right,” the man replied. He squinted at her through a round, metal-rimmed pair of spectacles.

“My name is Sophie McGann… I’ve just been hired as the new Orange Girl.”

“Ah… yes… Robertson’s friend from Edinburgh,” he said. “My name’s Edgar Bryan. I’m the prompter. I’ve heard a bit about you,” he added obliquely.

“I expect you have,” Sophie replied.

“First time working in the theater?” he asked.

“No, I printed and sold playbills at Drury Lane last season and helped Mr. Hopkins, the prompter, with his notes.”

“You did?” Mr. Bryan said, his eyes brightening. “I apprenticed under Hopkins, years ago. Well, if our season improves, perhaps I can persuade Mr. Arthur to put you on as my assistant. At the moment, we’re doing no new plays… just the old tried and true. These people would rather soak in sulfur water with their fellow invalids than imbibe a bit of culture!”

“Too much holiday making,” Sophie agreed. “Well, let’s hope things improve for both of us.” She searched his kindly face and asked him about lodgings. “I can’t afford anything fancy… just a decent spot that has a fireplace to keep warm.”

“I may know just the thing for you!” he said enthusiastically. “’Tis atop my favorite shop in all of Bath. Come. I shall treat you to tea.” Mr. Bryan donned his cloak, guided her past the stage door, and led her up Orchard Street. He motioned her through a small gate on the left that Sophie hadn’t noticed in any of her trips up and down the road. It let out into a small paved rectangle fronted on three sides by attractive town houses.

“This is North Parade,” he explained. “Your Mr. Garrick stays in this block when he comes to Bath for his gout,” he added, pointing at a white door with a handsome brass knocker.

They proceeded down the street, entering a narrow alley Sophie recognized from her trek from the Bear Inn her first day in Bath.

“First we’ll have a nice pot of tea,” he said, pointing to a sign that said “Sally Lunn’s Bath Buns,” “and then I’ll see if that garret room is still for lease.”

“Does Mrs. Lunn own the entire building?” Sophie asked.

“Sally Lunn’s been dead for near a century… but her sticky buns live on, thanks to Mrs. Hervey.”

Sophie craned her neck to scan the four stories soaring above her head. She spied a small, square-paned window under a peaked roof. A delicious aroma of baked breads wafted into the alley. For its odor alone, Sophie thought the garret would be the most heavenly place to live—as long as she had a penny for a bun.