Wicked Company (96 page)

“I have heard Peter’s grandfather died in ’75 and Peter himself has no legitimate heirs,” Sophie said, attempting to keep her temper under control. “And as women are so abused by British justice, I doubt Peter’s
mother
can press a claim against Hunter cuckolding her son, if she still lives!”

“Lord Mansfield has said he would look into the matter,” Hunter’s barrister declared with rising irritation. “That is all I can do… and now, if you will settle the accounts owing,” he added pointedly.

Sophie reluctantly handed him a guinea for his efforts.

In the frustrating weeks that followed, Sophie gave up her campaign to shake Hunter from his debilitating depression. She concentrated, instead, on earning money by printing broadsheets, placards, and tradesmen’s cards and by working secretly again on
School for Fools
—everything and anything that would garner them a few shillings to pay the lease on their lodgings and keep them all alive. Garrick had been away from London most of the autumn, visiting noblemen and gentry who clamored for his company, including Lord Palmerston, who lured him to Broadlands, his estate in Hampshire. Sophie called at Adelphi Terrace only to learn from Hannah More that the Garricks had not yet returned.

“They’ve asked me to keep an eye out for them here,” she explained self-importantly. Pressing Hannah for recent news of her friends, Sophie was distressed to hear that David had recently suffered a violent bilious attack that had left him very weak. “He also passed several gallstones while at Broadlands,” Hannah added, shaking her head dolefully. “Dreadfully painful, they were, Mrs. G. wrote me. They’d hoped to spend Christmas at Althorp with Lord and Lady Spencer, but I expect them to come home first, as, soon as Mr. G. is fit to travel.”

Sophie nodded her thanks for the information imparted, however reluctantly, by Miss More, and retreated down the steps with an increasing sense of foreboding.

Icy bursts of wind whipped at the edges of her cloak as she passed by St. Paul’s on her way home. There was a hint of snow in the air and Christmas was approaching, but there was little about her life to cause Sophie to feel festive. She reminded herself that she was, at last, making progress with her comedy that was set in London’s madhouse, but she doubted she would have the funds to furnish any grand holiday fare for either Rory or poor Hunter.

She glanced up at the columns of St. Paul’s. What could she possibly provide Hunter for Christmas that would make him believe there was a future for them… that all was not hopeless? Suddenly, she smiled, and, with a determined step, marched into the large cavern known as the Actors’ Church.

***

“This arrived for you, Mr. Robertson,” the turnkey said with a sly wink. He handed Hunter a bundle tied with string. “My instructions are that you are to don the fresh linen provided and clean yourself up.”

“And whose instructions are these?” Hunter growled sullenly.

“One who should be obeyed,” the turnkey pronounced solemnly. He reached for a tray held by an associate. “Here’s a blade and a sliver of soap and a bowl of water. Shave yourself, my man! You’ll have visitors anon.”

As promised, within the hour Hunter heard the jingle of keys and the clatter of footsteps. The door to his cell swung open and a cleric in a black suit and white linen collar entered, followed by Hunter’s seven-year-old son Rory, Mrs. Phillips, and Lorna Blount—the women cloaked in silks and furs.

Lastly Sophie appeared, wearing a gown of wine-red velvet, cut alluringly low so as to reveal a great deal of her small but rounded bosom. Staring openmouthed at the group, Hunter silently wagered that every scrap of their finery had been secured from Drury Lane’s extensive costume holdings, courtesy of Lorna Blount.

“I expect you’ll be wanting to sign the forms first,” the cleric said nervously.

“What forms?” Hunter demanded. The mother of his only child had a sweet but determined look on her face.

“The special license required to marry at a location other than in a Church of England,” she said calmly. “I’ve already signed them… see? You need just to put your name right…
there,”
she said, pointing at a line on the official-looking document.

He stared at her for a moment, and then accepted the quill held out to him by the turnkey. The jailor’s smug smile revealed he had been Sophie McGann’s willing accomplice.

“Is this legal?” Hunter asked the cleric gruffly.

“W-why y-yes,” the rector stuttered. “At least Mr. Garrick’s letter posted from Broadlands maintained that it was. He swore that to the best of his knowledge, you remain a bachelor. Your bride, here, has shown me the certificate that she is a widow and that there is some urgency to the formalities. Hence, I have agreed that this ceremony may be performed in… uh… a
prison.”

“Refresh my memory,” Hunter said, casting an unbelieving stare in Sophie’s direction, “what is the
urgency
prompting these ‘formalities,’ as you call them?”

“I explained to the good rector,” Sophie intervened, with a glance in Rory’s direction, “that you wished to recognize your son and that I… ah…” she cast her eyes coquettishly downward and patted her abdomen, “I believed myself to be—”

“Of course,” Hunter interrupted hastily marveling at Sophie’s powers of imagination, since he had not touched her in three months.

“You
are
willing to make me your wife, aren’t you?” Sophie demanded, uncertainty suddenly flooding her amber eyes.

Mrs. Phillips took a step forward.

“My advice to you, young man—”

“No need for entreaties, Mrs. Phillips,” he assured her, raising both hands in front of his face as if to ward off a blow.

Lorna laid her palms on Rory’s small shoulders.

“Your son wishes to stand as best man for you, and you can’t disappoint him!”

He glanced at the little boy staring at him solemnly and slowly nodded his head.

“I’d quite like that,” he murmured. “Come over here and let me lean on you, lad.” Rory looked up and grinned at his father. Then, Hunter extended his hand toward Sophie and waited patiently for her to clasp it. “This may be the daftest wedding ever in Christendom, but will you do me the honor, Mistress Sophie McGann, of becoming my wife?”

“Yes…” she replied, her eyes shining. She stood on tiptoe in order to whisper in his ear. “Happy Christmas, darling.”

***

Following the brief ceremony, the chattering crowd, except for Sophie, filed out of Hunter’s cell and the turnkey locked them inside with a lascivious chuckle. When the jailor’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Hunter pulled Sophie against his chest and inhaled her fragrant hair.

“You always had a penchant for risking your lovely neck for your beliefs,” he said ruefully. “I hope you haven’t made one last, dreadful mistake marrying me.”

“I’ve made no mistake, as long as you don’t say ’tis hopeless, my trying to get you out of here,” she said urgently. “If you give in to your melancholy as you have, we are
both
lost, for I cannot imagine my life without you. I’ve tried to write our life’s script with other endings and I simply cannot. ’Tis we… together… for good or ill—and that’s the end of it.”

Hunter held her more tightly against his chest. The crown of her head fit perfectly beneath his chin.

“I truly wonder how such a wee thing can turn a man’s life upside down,” he murmured into her hair. Then he pulled away from her, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Now what is this the good rector said about the
urgency
prompting the wedding formalities… and you believing yourself to be—?”

“’Twas merely a ruse to prompt the cleric to perform the rite in prison,” Sophie replied with a shrug. “He was rather reluctant when first I proposed the idea to him. My hinting I was with child, plus Garrick’s letter, in the end prompted him to—”

“Ah… I see,” Hunter chuckled. “You little deceiver.” He gently strafed his fingers along the mounds of her bosom forced as high as humanly possible by the gown’s tight bodice. “Well… we can’t have you lying to a man of the cloth, can we now?” he said, bending forward to kiss the valley between her breasts. “We’ll just have to make an honest woman of you…”

“We dare not make another baby,” she whispered softly as she tenderly stroked his hair. “Not yet. But, have faith, laddie!” She reached into a wicker hamper filled with celebratory wine and cheese and retrieved a sheathlike object made of the thinnest sheepskin membrane he had ever seen. “’Tis Mrs. Phillips’s finest,” Sophie announced with a throaty laugh, “guaranteed not to cause blisters or feel like flannel sock!”

***

“Well, my dear Mrs. Robertson!” David Garrick greeted Sophie, as she entered his study on the second floor of his London residence on a wintery December afternoon. “Congratulations are certainly in order!”

Despite Garrick’s hearty welcome, Sophie was dismayed to discover that his skin had taken on an unhealthy yellow tinge and his ankles and wrists were more swollen than ever, owing to his latest attack of gallstones. Nevertheless, Garrick remained buoyant in Sophie’s presence.

“I have every expectation that
School for Fools
will provide the means to buy the release of your groom,” he said, “especially now that we’ve managed to get it past Capell.”

“He’s granted it a license?” Sophie asked with astonishment.

“Sherry had the devil’s own time getting him to, but we gave a bit of push through Lord Hertford.” Garrick chuckled and then winced with pain as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I even stooped to hinting that
I,
myself, might have chosen the pseudonym Sydney Ganwick for certain of my writing efforts. Capell didn’t dare question the Lord Chamberlain after
that!”

“Has he ordered major changes in the piece?” Sophie asked apprehensively.

“As I expected, cuts and deletions abound. You may have heard, our sovereign had a strange siege of brain fever briefly in his youth,” he explained. “Nothing’s tipped up since, fortunately, but who can predict whether the malady will strike King George the Third again? ’Twas years ago, however, so Hertford overruled his deputy’s objections to the comedy being set in a madhouse.” He smiled reassuringly. “However, there
is
one aspect of your play that may still prove troublesome.”

“Yes?” Sophie asked, her spirits sinking.

“Your character, Dr. Mudley, the director of the madhouse? Capell mentioned to Lord Hertford that Dr. Monro at Bedlam might raise some objection to the work. Lord Hertford waved it aside, saying that a number of men in the medical profession have publicly taken issue with Monro. However, I say remove the sinister elements to the Mudley character and keep the silly ones.”

“I shall mull it over when I make the corrections,” Sophie replied politely, trying to disguise her dismay both at Capell’s numerous black
Xs
disfiguring her manuscript and at the prospect that Dr. Monro might create trouble again. Not wishing to tire Garrick further, Sophie rose to make her departure. “Do take care of yourself, dear Mr. G,” she urged.

He smiled wanly. “I expect I shall not be in London for the debut of
School for Fools
in January, but I’m sure all will go well. You have much ability, my dear… and I’m sorry you’ve been thwarted so often, merely because of your gender.”

Touched by his empathy, Sophie impulsively seized his gnarled hand and gently kissed it.

“Thank you for everything you have ever done for me,” she murmured humbly.

“Now, now, my dear,” he responded, resting his palm on the top of her head as he had when he offered his benediction to the three actresses playing his daughters in
King Lear.
“Your own formidable talents would have won out somehow, even without my help.”

Sophie raised her head and felt tears filling her eyes. She had sought David Garrick’s blessing for virtually everything she had ever attempted during the years she had lived in London—even her latest effort to wed Hunter Robertson.

“I sincerely doubt I would have had a single play produced without your good offices, sir. I will never forget your many kindnesses,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.

“You
are very kind,” he replied, his eyes misting over. “And please offer my best regards to that new husband of yours,” he added, recovering his composure. “If through some bad luck, you don’t make your blunt on your play, remember my offer of assistance.”

“I will,” Sophie whispered, barely able to talk. “Thank you.”

She stumbled downstairs, blinking back tears she was determined to conceal from Eva-Maria.

“Thank you for not staying too long.” Mrs. Garrick smiled gravely, joining Sophie in the foyer. “He so enjoys seeing young people like yourself, but I think he’s in more pain than he’s willing to admit. ’Tis such a comfort to have Hannah with us at this time,” she confided, ushering Sophie to the door. “She’s been kindness itself through all of Davy’s difficulties.”