Wicked Company (65 page)
Just then, the clamor of bells rang out, officially heralding the arrival of members of the “quality” to the small market town. A raft of dukes and duchesses had already come to Stratford, along with half a dozen earls and untold numbers of lesser peers and peeresses.
“Let’s hope the toffs are reveling in their humble surroundings,” Latimore commented finally. “Perhaps they’ll consider the entire adventure a lark.”
“I only pray they do,” Sophie muttered.
Just then, one of Latimore’s workmen burst into the coffee room.
“Sir! Sir! Mr. and Mrs. Garrick have arrived!” he exclaimed. “They’re lodging in William Hunt’s house on Church Street and bid you join them there.”
Sophie and the architect leapt to their feet, nearly upsetting the small table where they’d been sitting.
“Thank heavens he’s here!” Latimore said fervently.
Sophie felt a surge of excitement in place of the anxiety that had gripped her during these final weeks of preparation. Garrick had arrived! The Shakespeare Jubilee was about to get under way.
***
“Here’s the revised schedule of events,” Garrick said briskly as he handed Sophie a piece of foolscap covered with notes.
Ever since his arrival he had been directing the final preparations like an army general from both his lodgings at William Hunt’s house and from chambers provided for his use by the owner of the White Lion Inn. Now that the Drury Lane manager was in command, Sophie had hopes that everything would somehow come together before the next day’s opening ceremonies.
“I want you to run off the program at Fulk Weale’s printing shop right away,” he directed, “so that the list of tomorrow’s opening day events are distributed to every door in Stratford by tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophie replied, glancing anxiously out the sitting room window at the ominous gray clouds roiling overhead. Rain had been pelting the village of Stratford intermittently since Saturday, but thus far today, there had been no serious downpours. In less than twenty-four hours, the event they’d all worked the entire summer to create would begin.
“And has Mr. Jackson of Tavistock Street arrived with costumes to let for the masquerade ball?” Garrick inquired sharply.
“One hundred and fifty cases of them—and he’s
doubled
his normal fees,” Sophie replied tersely.
“Can’t be helped,” Garrick replied with a wave of his hand. “I’ve just been informed Charles Dibdin has arrived,” he continued, referring to the mercurial composer, whose works had been commissioned especially for the Jubilee. “I’ve instructed him to rehearse this evening with the flutists, guitarists, and singers who, God willing, will coax the visitors out of their beds tomorrow morning in time for the opening ceremonies at eight o’ clock. I want you to make sure that Dibdin’s ‘Dawn Serenade’ will actually begin at
dawn!
Speak to him tonight at his rehearsal in Town Hall.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophie repeated, wondering if the chorus would be loud enough to drown out the sounds of frantic hammering now reverberating throughout the village as last-minute projects raced toward completion.
Unfortunately, Garrick’s brother, George, had spent the better part of the summer supping with cronies and drinking port with Mr. French, the artist charged with painting banners and silk transparencies. Various projects had gotten so far behind by late August that David Garrick had dispatched fifty-eight carpenters from London at extraordinarily high wages to meet the deadline.
By late Tuesday afternoon, Sophie was dismayed to see a new layer of heavy clouds gathering in the darkening sky. A chill wind blew against her cloak as she rounded the High Street and the temperature seemed to drop suddenly by several degrees. However, both the townsfolk and visitors appeared oblivious to the elements and remained gathered around crackling bonfires on nearly every street corner. On the Avon, flotillas of river craft had begun tying up at the quays and every available docking spot. The rattle of arriving coaches and the staccato of premature fireworks elicited a kind of excitement that Sophie hadn’t felt in ages.
On this evening before the official commencement of festivities, candles glowed in the windows of the newly constructed Town Hall as Sophie mounted the steps leading to the stone edifice. The air was filled with the sound of singers practicing the “Dawn Serenade” to the accompaniment of strumming guitars and softly beating drums.
Let Beauty with the Sun arise,
To Shakespeare Tribute pay,
With heavenly Smiles and sparkling Eyes,
Give Grace and Luster to the Day.
Sophie paused at the door to the large room where the city fathers would eventually be holding their deliberations. In the amber light cast by wall sconces, the musicians played a rich melody, and the singers’ voices blended lushly with guitar arpeggios enlivened by the flutes’ counterpoint.
Then, a tall young man with dark blond hair that was pulled back and fastened at the nape of the neck stepped forward. Sophie found herself staring directly into Hunter Robertson’s piercing blue eyes as he began to sing a solo.
Each Smile she gives protects his Name,
What Face shall dare to frown?
Not Envy’s Self can blast the Fame,
Which Beauty deigns to Crown.
Sophie’s mouth had gone dry and she clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. She tried to pull her gaze away from Hunter’s face, but she could not, frozen as she was by the shock of seeing him in the flesh. It was one thing to fantasize about his coming to the Shakespeare festivities, quite another to have him standing ten feet away. She sensed a familiar feeling of suffocation begin to descend on her as she recalled his damning words blaming her for Danielle’s death. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady her nerves, wishing only to escape from Hunter’s presence—and his censure.
He returned to the company of singers as the chorus continued with the song. At its conclusion, Sophie quickly approached Charles Dibdin to confirm he had, indeed, scheduled his minstrels to perform at the crack of dawn.
“The music is absolutely lovely,” Sophie hurriedly assured the composer. “Mr. Garrick looks forward to your serenade at dawn’s light… and so do I. I bid you good night.”
She spun on her heel, preparing to leave the building at a dead run, when a steadying hand settled on her shoulder.
“Hello, Sophie,” Hunter said, gazing down at her intently. “Do you think our morning concert will roust everyone out of bed, as intended?” He spoke in an even, controlled voice, in total contrast to the angry shout he’d hurled at her in front of her book shop three years earlier.
“I-I’m sure the music will have its proper effect,” she stammered, backing toward the door. “I’m a-afraid I must be off… I’ve a number of chores still to do for Mr. G—” she said inanely and bolted for the exit.
***
The following morning, there was virtually no sunrise to greet Dibdin and his minstrels’ rendition of “Dawn Serenade.” Thick, gray clouds all but obscured the horizon. Sophie was roused from the comfort of her feather bed by the thunderous sound of thirty cannons blasting away on the banks of the Avon at six a.m. Volley after volley was fired, followed by church bells that tolled for at least ten minutes. She speculated that only those residents of Stratford who were stone deaf could possibly continue to slumber after such a clamor.
She slipped out from under the covers, pulled the counterpane off the bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders to shield against the dank morn. She opened her window and peered into the stable yard, giggling at the sight of carriages that suddenly began to bounce and sway. At one coach window appeared a befuddled gentleman with a tousled wig; at another, an elderly crone, now nearly bald, who had sensibly removed her hairpiece before retiring for the night.
Dibdin and his singers, dressed in tattered clothes, masked and smeared with grime to represent innocent country lads, marched into the innkeeper’s yard and began one of a series of short concerts intended to wake the honored guests lodged about the town.
Staring down into the muddy stable yard, Sophie instantly recognized the tall figure towering over the rest of the musical troupe. “Dawn Serenade” began and Sophie found herself exchanging stares with Hunter throughout the song. At the conclusion of the brief performance, cheers resounded from the carriages and from windows thrown open for the early morning recital.
Most of the performers waved gaily to Sophie as they departed, but Hunter stood rooted to the spot. Sophie felt herself begin to tremble once again at the mere sight of him standing there, not twenty paces from her window. Then he bowed slightly and proffered a solemn salute before striding off with his colleagues through the gateway that led to Henley Street. With trilling flutes and strumming guitars the minstrels headed for William Hunt’s house to serenade the Garricks on this opening day of the Jubilee.
Shaken by this encounter, Sophie dressed quickly while making a valiant attempt to keep her thoughts on the business at hand. She made her way to the Town Hall as quickly as she could after being jostled by the milling crowds overflowing the streets. She passed Kitty Clive, the Duke of Dorset, the Duke of Manchester, and a gaggle of earls and countesses, all elbowing their way through the throng to secure a decent seat for the opening ceremonies and the breakfast to follow.
Blessed St. Ninian, ’tis as crowded as a Drury Lane first night!
Sophie thought excitedly. Garrick’s name and prestige had drawn actors and visitors from all over Britain!
She spotted George Colman, Garrick’s one-time friend, now his rival as one of the patent holders at Covent Garden Theater. He was busily scribbling notes on a folded piece of foolscap. Sophie had caught a glimpse of him the evening before in the parlor of the White Lion, handing a messenger his daily report on events in Stratford for a London paper. She wondered how charitable he would be.
“Why Sophie McGann!” Colman hailed her. “You’re the very person I should talk to.” His cool, appraising glance told her that if she wasn’t careful, he would use what she might say as a means of insulting her employer. “As you’ve been here these past months, assisting the Great Garrick in preparing for this grand event… you must tell me… is it
true
that the locals charge a shilling if one asks them the time?”
“Well, good morning, Mr. Colman! So nice to see you in Stratford!” Sophie responded sweetly. “No… that’s not been my experience at all. But, ’tis time for the breakfast, and I fear I must be off. Enjoy the Jubilee, sir!”
“Oh, I shall, indeed,” Colman called after her. “I’ve seen enough tomfoolery at this festival to supply me with plots for a thousand farces!”
As Sophie mounted the steps to the Town Hall, a carnival atmosphere had gripped the crowd. Banners flew on buildings everywhere, and tradesmen were hawking souvenir medals, caged birds, and all manner of “memorial” bric-a-brac. Perhaps the Jubilee
was
part flummery and nonsense, calculated to please the crowds and not just lovers of literature. Even so, Sophie told herself, Garrick would have been more than pleased to balance this type of frivolity with more substantive celebrations. Conspicuously missing from this event, however, were the serious Shakespearean scholars Garrick had hoped to attract: Dr. Samuel Johnson and other leading members of his circle, including the detestable Edward Capell. As for Dr. Johnson’s greatest admirer, Jamie Boswell, Sophie doubted he would appear, lest he offend his mentor.
In fact, many of Garrick’s presumed allies had actually waxed vituperative about his efforts to mount a Shakespeare Jubilee and had shunned the event. A mere actor as Keeper of the Flame of the Immortal Shakespeare? The scholars were appalled. To Sophie, one word explained it all:
envy.
“Sophie, my dear,” David Garrick greeted her as she entered the assembly room, “you’ve done a marvelous job of distributing the programs. Just
look
at those crowds!” He was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a suit of amber velvet with a long cream silk waistcoat, which sported gold buttons down the front. His hands were sheathed in white doeskin gloves reputed to have belonged to the Bard himself. “Have you any extra copies? I’m sure there are people to whom you could hand them at the door.”
“Yes, I brought extras… I’ll just go to my post.” She smiled encouragingly, for her mentor had a distracted air. Suddenly, brass trumpets announced the arrival of the mayor, John Meacham, who was accompanied by his alderman and burgesses, resplendent in their official velvet robes and hats. William Hunt, the town clerk, presented Garrick with his staff of office as the steward of the festivities.
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” rang out the throng, packed cheek by jowl into the assembly room.
Garrick patted the medal, grasped the wand firmly, and made a bow to the spectators much as he would opening night at Drury Lane.
