An Experiment in Treason Page 18

  Having mentioned his heavy pockets, Tom must have felt obliged to lighten them somewhat. If that were the case, he could not have chosen a better and surer way to accomplish this than a visit to the Tyburn Gaming Club, formerly Black Jack Bilbo’s. Already the new proprietor had sent rumors flying that his tables were not governed wholly by the laws of chance.

  Sir John passed these rumors on to him, yet Tom paid them little heed. This occasioned a remark from the magistrate, which has stayed with me always. “When a man is determined to throw his money away, there is simply no dissuading him,” said he to me in private. “To do so gives some a feeling of power, though why this should be I cannot understand.” In any case, Tom lost a considerable amount in a single evening — perhaps half his fortune — so he must have felt very powerful indeed.

  After a time, it became clear to me that Tom’s guiding purpose whilst in our midst was to displease his mother. I believe I do not exaggerate in this, for he not only took every opportunity to make remarks in a joking manner that would be sure to vex her, but he also created occasions that were sure to cause conflict. I have mentioned his visit to the Tyburn Gaming Club; that caused conflict aplenty. There was also an absence of most of a day and half of a night from which he returned over the shoulder of Benjamin Bailey, chief of the Bow Street Runners, who had collected him from the Bedford Street gutter. When, before all the rest of us. Lady Fielding had demanded an explanation from him, he at first declined to give any. But when she insisted, he said that he had “found an appealing little whore and got drunk with her.” Which may or may not have been true, but distressed his mother no end. There were other such events.

  Yet, to a remarkable degree, she seemed to bring it upon herself. She was forever telling him how to conduct himself, what to say and do. He would make no comment, nor pay any attention to her whatever. She insisted, as an instance, upon accompanying him when he went out to search for a new coat to take the place of the one which had been befouled in the Bedford Street gutter. I know not what happened, nor what else said between them, yet I do know that afterward neither of them spoke to the other for a full day.

  Sir John bore up well. To me he confided that he felt that both were wrong.

  “Kate seems to believe,” said he, “that she has still the right to assert the parent’s authority. She refuses to recognize that her boy is now a man. And Tom, for his part, sees no way to declare his manhood than by making himself as offensive in his behavior and speech as possible. He is simply playing the bad boy, which in a sense is just what she wishes.”

  “Hmmm,” said I, “why then do you not speak to them that they may adopt more reasonable ways, each with the other?”

  He considered that for a moment, then did he shake his head in the negative. “No, Jeremy,” said he. “I fear they must find their own way. She must allow him to be a man, and he must find better ways to demonstrate to her that he has become one, than he has so far discovered. Yet perhaps I can do something that may give the two of them a bit of a rest from these emotionally exhausting pursuits.”

  “What had you in mind?”

  “A trip to the theatre. David Garrick stopped by whilst you were away on your afternoon errands, and he told me that his new production would be of considerable interest.”

  “Shakespeare, of course.”

  “Of course,” said he. ” Romeo and Juliet. He has offered us his box for tomorrow night, should we wish it.”

  “Oh, I wish it,” said I with great enthusiasm.

  “And I also,” said he. “Consider it done then. Between us we shall overcome any reluctance on Tom’s part, or Kate’s.”

  So we did. I could not imagine Lady Fielding declining an invitation to the theatre, yet I knew naught of Tom’s interest — in Shakespeare, particularly — indeed whether he had any at all. Yet for all of his ill-tempered behavior, he had managed to be quite civil to Sir John. Perhaps he had somehow been made newly aware of Sir John’s reputation — or perhaps he merely liked and respected him.

  In any case, there was neither resistance nor reluctance when Sir John announced at the dinner table that he would be taking all to the Drury Lane next evening.

  “And what is the play?” Tom asked.

  “What indeed but Romeo an? Juiiet?” I responded.

  “Ah well,” said he, “not my favorite, but doubtless a work of considerable worth.”

  “You’ve seen another production, have you?” asked Sir John.

  “No, but I read it long ago while in school.”

  “It is unquestionably the greatest of all Shakespeare’s plays,” said Clarissa with great authority, raising her eyes heavenward. “To me, there is no more beautiful and tragic theme than young love … thwarted.”

  Following that announcement, there was a good deal of coughing and shuffling of feet round the table.

  When we settled into our seats there in the box which Mr. Garrick had provided, we found it a bit tight. There were, after all, six of us.

  and the box, which was located closest stage left, was smaller than the rest — or so it seemed to me. Still, snug or loose, we fitted it in separate rows — Sir John and Lady Fielding, together with Tom Durham, sat in front of Clarissa, Molly, and me.

  There were some minutes before first curtain, and so, while the others buzzed in anticipation, I opened the program and glanced at the cast list. Of a sudden did I understand Sir John’s hidden purpose in organizing his expedition to Drury Lane Theatre. I looked round me — at Tom, feigning boredom, at Clarissa and Molly beside me, deep in whispered conversation, and Lady Fielding, straining back to listen in — and saw that none of them had even so much as opened their copies of the program. I decided to say nothing of my discovery. Let them find out in the manner that Sir John had intended.

  A £ew minutes later the curtain came up on that street in Verona and on the two male servants of the Capulets, and soon the air was filled with scurrilous ambiguities. In the next scene, the Montagues arrived, and we saw the two feuding houses clash for the first time. I waited impatiently for the third scene of the first act, for I knew that, in the course of it, Juliet would make her first appearance. Yes, here it was, and here she came: Miss Anne Oakum, as announced in the program, in the role of Juliet. Twas our Annie, our former cook, in her first leading role at the Drury Lane — thus the visit by Mr. Garrick to Sir John to put him on notice that she would be appearing as Juliet. He was certain that we would all wish to attend.

  Though Clarissa and I had seen Annie in some of her appearances as she served her apprenticeship with Mr. Garrick s company, we had not seen all. We had not been aware of her swift progress from supernumerary roles as a lady-in-waiting to the role of Juliet, one of the most demanding of Shakespeare’s female parts.

  I watched closely to see which of our party would be first to recognize her. I expected that it would be Tom — for hadn’t he and Annie been lovers, in their fashion? — but indeed it was not Tom. I saw him frowning down at her, as if asking himself who this Juliet could be who looked so familiar. He continued looking until Clarissa leaned forward and provided the answer. At about that same moment, Lady Fielding clapped her hand to her mouth that she might trap the exclamation of surprise which leaped to her hps; something of it escaped, a kind of muffled gasp, which seemed to amuse Sir John sitting close beside her.

  The acts went by. Dear Annie proved more than equal to the part. To some extent, I would have to say that she was only held back a little by the performance of her Romeo. David Garrick had cast himself in the role, and she could hardly have asked that another be given a chance, for after all it was his company, was it not? The voice and the sense of the poetry in the lines were all very well, of course, but it was painful to see a man into his fifties attempt to play a boy forty years younger. He lacked the swiftness of youth, the sense of impetuous passion of a much younger man. He should not have attempted it.

  If anything, Mr. Garrick’s performance seemed to heighten Annie’s and reveal
the energy and spirit behind it. Only once did she falter, and that was during the famous balcony scene. In the course of one of her longest speeches, she did raise her eyes and, for the first time, spy Tom Durham hanging over the railing, consuming her with his own eyes. I’m certain that she recognized him immediately, for she grew flustered and repeated a line, yet did so in such a way that she seemed carried away by the excitement of the moment — just as Juliet might have done. A graceful recovery.

  During intermissions, the women buzzed about Annie — how well she was doing, how beautiful she looked in costume and makeup — while the males in our party (each for a different reason) kept silent. Sir John, I believe, said not a word till the play was done. Only after the thunderous applause had subsided and the final curtain rung down, did he speak.

  “Well,” said he, “I think we must all go down now and congratulate Annie upon that magnificent performance. What say you all to that?”

  All were eager, right enough, and so with Clarissa and me leading the way (since we knew it best), we journeyed through the lower depths of the theatre to the row of dressing rooms at the far end. After knocking on a few wrong doors, we came upon the right one. Something was called out from inside in answer to my knock, and I boldly threw open the door — only to find the room crowded with those, like us, who had come to congratulate her upon her triumph (for triumph was what they called it). There were members of the cast — including Mr. Garrick himself and the actress who had played the Nurse — and a few of the audience who were themselves costumed so elegantly that they must be nobles. And in the midst of this array of talent and riches was our Annie, dressed still as Juliet, recognizable as such beneath her makeup. Clarissa dove through the crowd and was at her side in no time at all, hugging the very life from her. The rest of us hung back somewhat timidly. Sir John, and I with him, were taken aside by David Garrick, who was smiling broadly, looking happier than I had ever before seen him.

  “What think you now of your little cook. Sir John?”

  “I am as pleased as I can be,” said he. “I blush to think how close one can be to such talent and never recognize it as such.”

  “Talent is one thing,” said the actor, “but ability another. True, she had a good deal of talent when she joined the troupe, yet I have never had an apprentice who took so well to teaching, nor a young actress who responded so well to coaching. Talent is more common than most would suppose, but ability on the stage such as hers is rarer than any would guess.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir John, “that, coming from you — “

  “Must never be repeated to her,” said Mr. Garrick, interrupting. “It would not do for her to know how good she really is.”

  Sir John threw back his head and laughed at that. “You might lose your hold upon her, eh?”

  “Actresses can be very difficult.”

  With that he gave a polite little bow to the magistrate and a wave to me. He whispered good-bye and left for his own dressing room. Little by little the room emptied. The other cast members were the first to go. Then, almost reluctantly, the more gaudily dressed of the nobles drew away and, bidding good-bye, departed the room. Only then, cautiously, did Lady Fielding and Molly Sarton move forward. Tom Durham held back still.

  I had an opportunity to study him. He was off in one corner of what was really a rather small room, and though I had an opportunity to study him, I may as well have been completely invisible to him, for he looked neither to the right nor left, but rather did he concentrate with all his energy upon Annie.

  He was quite overwhelmed by her success — that much was evident. As the noblemen and a few of their ladies left the room, he followed them with his eyes, the look in his eyes expressing something of awe, something of longing and envy. I understood for the first time how removed Tom must feel from the great world of London. All he knew how to do was order men about on shipboard. I believe that following that realization I never again envied the fellow. It was only when the last of Annie’s legion of well-wishers had left her that he came forward hesitantly, hoping shyly to be recognized by her.

  “Hello, Annie,” said he, “do you remember me?”

  “I know I should,” said she, taking a step back that she might better study him. “Oh, I know! Your mother is Lady Fielding, is she not? And I believe — correct me if I’m wrong in this — that you re in the Navy, are you not? Or was it the Army? I confess I have a good deal of difficulty keeping the two apart.”

  She was acting, of course, improvising her lines. Of that I was certain, for I had seen the momentary shock in her face when she saw and recognized Tom from the stage. For years he had studiously ignored her, sending no greeting to her in his letters to the rest of us, enclosing no notes to her. This was the punishment she had meted out to him. Had she planned it so? I doubted it, though perhaps in a daydream or two she had enjoyed just such a revenge.

  As for Tom, no such possibility as this had ever occurred to him, I am sure. It was simply beyond the laws of chance that one that he had known as a cook would become not just an actress but overnight the toast of London. Yet here she was, his first conquest, apparently unable to recall him clearly, even less did she seem to remember the circumstances and details that he must have known so well. As he had snubbed her for years, she now snubbed him most cruelly and with great effect. He seemed to shrink before our very eyes.

  Annie had placed her knife well. She was now to give it a final twist.

  A knock came upon the door. In response, Annie called out an invitation to enter. Into the room came a young man of about twenty-five, handsome of countenance and graceful of manner. He was extremely well dressed, yet in a manner more conservative than those who had left but minutes before. He removed his hat, smiled a greeting to Annie, and offered all a little bow.

  “Ah, Harry,” said she, “let me introduce you to all here.” She proceeded to do just that, presenting him to us as Harold, Earl of Bardwell.

  With that done, he informed her that he had had the coach brought round to the stagedoor.

  “Ah then, I take it we must hurry.”

  “I fear so. The party is, after all, given in your honor.”

  “Then it would be a sin to keep them waiting, would it not?”

  He nodded shyly.

  “Alas,” said Annie, “I must ask all to leave whilst I change out of my costume.” She gestured to a stern-faced woman who, through it all, had remained at her post beside the dressing screen in the corner.

  “This is Mrs. Biggs. She is my dresser, and I fear that in another minute she will take up her whip and drive you all out of the room.” Mrs. Biggs showed no sign of amusement at Annie’s little joke, and she said not a word, so that I half-believed she might do as Annie had said.

  There followed a swift round of good-byes, and, in no more than a moment or two, we were all out in the corridor, taking our leave of the Earl of Bardwell.

  “Anne speaks so well of you all,” said Lord Bardwell. “And let me say. Sir John, what a pleasure it is to meet you at last after having heard so much about you.”

  “Not all of it bad, I hope.”

  “Oh, not at all. On the contrary,” said the other most earnestly. “As I grew up, you were held up to me often as an example of just how a public man ought to conduct himself.”

  “Well then, I shall return your compliment, for I have heard you discussed, and in the most favorable terms. I believe my informant, who might indeed be known to you, referred to you as ‘the most intelligent young man in the House of Lords.’” Sir John smiled and raised his hand in salute.

  “But it is past time that we should be going,” he added. “It was most pleasant to make your acquaintance. Lord Bardwell, specially under such happy circumstances.”

  Sir John offered his hand, and the younger man shook it eagerly. With a farewell chorus, we departed down the long hall.

  Just outside the theatre we encountered Constable Bailey, whom Sir John had requested to accompany us back to Numb
er 4 Bow Street.

  “Been to the theatre, have you, Sir John?”

  “We have indeed, Mr. Bailey.”

  “And was it a good play?”

  “One of the best, truly one of the best.”

  “I must try it sometime — going to the theatre, I mean.”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “No, never. It always seemed to me from what I heard that the stories told in those plays was too far-fetched to really enjoy — just fairy tales, really.”

  “Ah, not so,” said the magistrate. “There is little cannot be put forth in whole or in part as possible — from Cinderella to Sinbad the Sailor.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Bailey, “I ain’t too familiar with that Sinbad fella, but I know my Cinderella, and it never did seem real to me. Lives don’t change in a night. Not to mention mice into horses.”

  Sir John considered this as we walked on. Then, at last, he cleared his throat, and I, expecting a lengthy and well-reasoned pronouncement, was somewhat disappointed when all he said was, “Some lives do.”

  The experience of this night worked a great change in Tom Durham. He had little to say of it the next day, and it was only from Lady Fielding that we learned that he had agreed to accompany her on another of her trips north to see her mother. She had, it seemed, been urging him since his arrival to take such a trip with her, yet he had held out until that very day. As she told it, Tom had always been a special favorite of his grandmother, and he had come to the realization that he owed her a visit, since it seemed unlikely she would live long enough to see him at some later date.

  All of which may have been so, yet there seemed to be other, more immediate factors which may have brought him round. It appeared to me that he had been driven so low by his meeting with Annie that he needed a few days to recover his self-confidence. Such a trip provided him with just the sort of respite he needed.