Wicked Company (8 page)

The room had become insufferably stuffy, the cloying scents of the dancers masking not only the sweat produced by their exertions on the ballroom floor but odors of much baser origins. Hunter, Boswell, and Creech were already surrounded by a group of chattering young people their own age, including a bevy of beauties who clustered nearby, anxious to make Hunter’s acquaintance.

As the orchestra struck up a sedate minuet, Sophie found herself all but abandoned by her three companions. Her fear that Hunter Robertson would be unable to sell tickets to his performance at the Canongate Playhouse melted into the packed ballroom, replaced by a bleakness that seemed to invade her bones. She watched as Hunter, by way of introduction, kissed the hand of one coquette who stared at him invitingly with large luminous eyes. At this flirtatious exchange, Sophie’s pleasurable anticipation of the evening drained away entirely, leaving her wretchedly bereft and utterly ignored.

Three

The Canongate Playhouse was packed to the rafters on the evening of May 15. Sophie stood backstage, trembling with apprehension. It was all very well that Edinburgh women of fashion had apparently adopted a new pet—the devilishly handsome Hunter Robertson—but would the theater patrons sitting restlessly out front tire of Scottish ditties and laments and the novelty of a blind old man playing the harp? And what if the kirk elders thundered from their pulpits on Sunday against theatergoers who indulged in such wicked amusements?

Sophie retreated from the spy hole and gazed nervously into the tiring-room. Hunter stood in front of the looking glass neatly securing his blond mane at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He had combined Boswell’s blue velvet coat and laced-trimmed linen shirt to excellent effect with his Clan Robertson tartan trews woven of crimson, forest green, and navy wool He glanced at her standing in the door frame and grinned.

“What think you, Sophie lass? Will the ladies swoon—or throw rubbish?”

Before she could answer the obvious, the theater manager appeared in the doorway.

“Ready, lad?” Beatt asked. “I think we should begin.”

The performers moved toward the wings. Sophie watched the old man settle painfully on the low stool placed stage right. His daughter-in-law Jean Robertson took her customary position next to him as Rory pulled his stringed instrument to his arthritic shoulder and prepared to begin the performance.

Without so much as a nod to his mother, Hunter took Sophie by the hand and crossed to the curtained flies, stage left. She was relieved to see that he seemed full of confidence, almost as if he couldn’t wait to greet the potentially hostile audience.

“Can you believe all these people paid good shillings for what they could have heard a week ago on the street for a farthing!” he said jovially.

“’Tis a lot bigger space here in the Canongate than performing on cobblestones,” she warned. “Mind that you sing loudly, so the top galleries get their money’s worth and don’t hiss at you!”

“Always the till keeper, eh lass?” Hunter laughed, looking down at her fondly. “Dinna worry… I plan to sing my lungs out tonight.”

“’Tis better you should
sing
than speak,” she said anxiously. Some Lowlanders felt prejudiced against the Highland burr that was a hallmark of speech in the predominantly Catholic regions in northern Scotland.

“Aye,” Hunter agreed, suddenly looking pensive. “I’ll take your suggestion to heart, pet.”

And before she could wish him good luck, he bent down and kissed the top of her head like an affectionate brother. Then he nodded to David Beatt who gave the signal to the small orchestra he had hired for the occasion, at Hunter’s expense, to commence playing the medley of Scottish melodies that served to preview the evening’s entertainment.

At the sound of the music, the audience quieted. Through the peephole Sophie could see that their faces were turned attentively toward the stage.

Oh, please let him be good,
she cried silently.
Please let them like him!

Hunter stepped on stage and flashed his captivating smile. His rich, resonant baritone carried throughout the hall, dazzling even the patrons in the top gallery, who were delighted to be able to enjoy the words as well as the melody.

There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife

Nick-e-ty, nack-e-ty, noo, noo, noo

And he has gotten a gentle wife

Hey wil-ly wal-lack-y, noo, John Dougal!

She wadna bake, nor she wadna brew

For the spoiling of her comely hue!

By the last verse of this musical jest, the audience was smiling and clapping, the upper galleries boisterously joining in on the chorus of
“Nickety, nackety, noo, noo, noo!”

Sophie glanced over at David Beatt whose bald crown was fashionably covered by a bagwig in honor of the evening’s festivities. Sensing Sophie’s gaze, Beatt turned to look at her and vigorously bobbed his head in relief that everything was going well.

Sophie, the theater manager, and the audience had barely caught their collective breath when Hunter broke into the traditional “I’m a Rover,” emphasizing the teasing lyrics with his own special brand of rakish charm.

I’m a rover and seldom sober

I’m a rover o’ high degree

It’s when I’m drinking,

I’m always thinking

How to gain my love’s company!

Sophie returned to the peephole once again and stared at the women in the audience, who gazed with languorous eyes as Hunter swaggered back and forth across the stage. He seemed to display an astounding talent for making each woman—young or old—believe that he sang only to her. Even Lord Lemore, sitting in a choice box seat in the second tier, was no longer surveying the crowd with his characteristic reptilian gaze and, instead, was giving Hunter his complete attention.

Song after song—some solemn, some sprightly—issued from the Clan Robertson Singers, as Sophie had dubbed them, and the audience was enthralled with the sounds of a bygone era.

Finally, as the candles burned low throughout the auditorium, the little orchestra eased into a quiet, melancholy refrain, and Hunter’s demeanor changed dramatically from that of a lovable rogue with an eye for the ladies to a heart-sore lad whose musical lament told of tragedy and loss.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my days;

My Mary’s asleep by the murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Hunter’s deep tones spoke of a stinging, private grief more eloquently than any keening cry. Sophie watched from the wings and while the soft candlelight flickered across the smooth planes of his features, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, imprinting his classic profile in her memory.

Sophie watched while several powdered ladies fumbled for their lace handkerchiefs. Their male companions looked heavenward and blinked hard. As the orchestra’s haunting theme faded, the only sound in the hall was the last mournful cadence stroked by Rory Robertson, his gnarled fingers caressing the harp strings in a Highland requiem for some missing piece of Hunter’s past.

In the dead silence that hung in the air, Hunter uttered the only words he’d spoken during his entire performance.

“Will ye no come back ag’in?”

It was the traditional Highland farewell. He bowed gravely and marched off stage, straight into Sophie’s outstretched arms. She had to stand on her very tiptoes to hug him properly, shouting her praise over the thunderous applause that rolled over the footcandles glowing at the lip of the stage. Hunter picked Sophie up under her arms and spun her around, emitting an ear-splitting Highland battle cry that could almost be heard over the din out front. Without warning, he leaned down and was within inches of kissing her on the lips. Then, just as quickly, he thrust her away from him with a look of chagrin. Before either could utter a word, David Beatt was thumping his protégé on the shoulder, urging him to return to the stage to take another bow. Hunter obliged, but regardless of how hard his newly won admirers clapped their hands, he merely grinned what Sophie now recognized was his performance smile and steadfastly, but charmingly, refused to perform an encore.

“Let them pay to hear more,” he declared as he headed toward the Greenroom, a chamber designed for accommodating actors and their admirers. The origins of the reception room’s name were lost, although some actors claimed it derived from the village green where strolling players traditionally performed.

Hunter collapsed into a straight-backed chair, looking suddenly exhausted. Sophie poured him a cup of whiskey from a jug on a nearby table and he drank it down. For a moment it was eerily quiet, and Sophie was too tongue-tied by what had almost happened between them in the wings to break the silence.

“Sophie, I—” Hunter began, taking another draft of spirits. Then he set his cup down, and shook his head ruefully. “I’m an impulsive rogue when it comes to the fair sex, and that’s a fact. I apologize for—”

“Oh, Hunter,” she replied quickly, attempting to find a safer topic. “You’ve a beautiful voice and an amazing… talent for…
communing
with your audience.”

“Communing, is it?” He laughed gruffly. “’Tis how angels speak with saints, is it not? That canna be what
I
do!”

“Truly,” she insisted, not to be deterred from speaking what was in her heart. “’Twas most remarkable, what you did tonight. You
do
know that, don’t you?”

“Why thank you, young miss,” he said, his handsome features animated by a gentleness far removed from the bold sensuality he had displayed on stage or his joyful abandon when he embraced her in the wings. “You’ve been a great friend, and ’tis
that
I treasure more than… all that hand-thumping out there.”

Sophie gave him a wry smile.

“Oh, I’m certain you’ll soon accustom yourself to the applause,” she said, aware that their private moment would be interrupted any moment by an avalanche of well-wishers. “And I’ll bet you your evening’s wages tonight that Beatt will offer you a position in his company next season.”

“I’ll have to learn to read then,” he answered with a tight smile. “Do you think you could teach this lumpkin his ABCs by autumn?”

“Aye, Hunter Robertson, I could indeed,” she replied happily.

No sooner had she said the words than a legion of admirers—most of them women, and not a few actresses employed at the playhouse itself—burst into the Greenroom, all talking at once. Sophie slipped out of the chamber quickly to avoid a possible encounter with the unnerving Lord Lemore.

***

Hunter’s concerts were the talk of Edinburgh—including a sermon by the chief minister at St. Giles, who denounced the “blasphemies sung by rogues and vagabonds in the playhouse where Satan’s seat is and from whence He sends out Detachments of the Wicked to further his Campaign of Sin!”

“Goodness, did he say all
that?”
Sophie asked of Boswell, who had been required to attend the kirk session by his father, Lord Auckinleck, now returned to Edinburgh from his temporary duties as a circuit judge.

“Aye, that and more,” Boswell replied, thumbing through a copy of the
Edinburgh Courant
to see if several verses he’d written had been granted publication. The young law student had stopped by the book shop to persuade Hunter to accompany him to the Netherbow Coffeehouse to while away the rest of the afternoon sipping the bitter Turkish brew for a penny or two in front of a fire. There they could read the latest pamphlet or London newspaper and enjoy the company of any number of intriguing companions. Fops, justices, lawyers, pickpockets, actors, nonconformist clergy—all sorts of people frequented these smoky dens where, Sophie realized, the only women present tended to be barmaids, actresses, and prostitutes. But at least Hunter now had the funds to pay for such outings. With the tidy sum his performances had garnered, the Robertsons had even been able to take lodgings in White Horse Close, the first real home they had shared since Hunter’s childhood.

When Boswell appeared at the book shop’s door, Hunter had quickly hidden the reading primer he’d been studying. Three or four times a week he would sit cross-legged on the floor beside Sophie’s stool near the window and attempt to make sense of the letters on the page in front of him. Sophie desperately tried to remember how
she
had learned to read and gradually developed a method of linking each letter in the alphabet to the first word in a song Hunter knew.