Mistress of My Fate (55 page)
And then came my cue.
All at once I found myself striding upon the boards at the Little Theatre. Dear reader, that instant when I spoke my first line and heard my once meek voice reverberate like a church bell through the theatre—why, I can hardly describe it! With each word that flowed from my mouth, I seemed to captivate the attention of all of London. How extraordinary it felt! Six weeks earlier, I would not have believed myself capable of such a feat.
The glare from the lamps was much brighter than I had anticipated, but this did not render it entirely impossible to recognize faces through
the blaze of illumination. I saw first Quindell among the middle right boxes, precisely where he had directed me to search for him. I knew him immediately, for he sat flush against the edge of the box, his hands gripping the edge of it, rapt with anticipation and delight. Around him, I could make out the forms of his companions, that boisterous brood of bucks and bloods, Hanger, Tarleton and Lord Barrymore, the most formidable collection of rogues I ever chanced to know. Although my dear companion Mrs. Mahon was abroad, I was gratified to see my other friends, Miss Ponsonby, Lady Lade and Miss Greenhill, each wearing enormous feathers in their hair and fanning themselves against the heat.
I could not find St. John amid the silhouettes. Perhaps I simply failed to spot him, or perhaps he could not bring himself to attend the performance. Perhaps he had quit London for the summer and gone to his nephew, Lord Bolingbroke, in Wiltshire, where he sat dandling Georgie upon his knee. The image made me grimace and I quickly pushed it from my mind. I shall never know if he saw me upon the stage that night, nor shall I know if any among my relations witnessed my début. For the sake of my father, I hope he did not.
The first act came and passed so rapidly that I could hardly believe it. I was more astonished still to observe how well I had acquitted myself, how ably I had played my role. As I retreated to the wings, I caught my breath and shut my eyes, but my heart was beating faster than ever.
I awaited my next cue, and with as much confidence as I had had before, executed my part to perfection. In fact, it seemed that one act rolled into the next with the smooth momentum of a wound mechanism. As the sets were moved and turned, and trap doors shut and opened, I felt this obligation of mine wheeling closer to its end.
It was as I awaited my scene with Kemble in Act Four that he saw fit to pass comment upon my performance. This was the part of Sheridan’s play—Maria’s interview with her guardian, Sir Peter—that had
reduced me on so many occasions to fits of tears. As I stood stoically beside him, preparing to advance into the glow of the lamps, he examined me out of the corner of his eye.
“I hardly thought it possible, Mrs. Lightfoot,” said he. “This has come as a surprise. A pleasant one.”
It was, I believe, a compliment.
The curtain, it seemed, had no sooner lifted upon Act Four than it came down again. The scene shifters dashed out across the stage, and I, with a throbbing head and heart, sought a moment’s calm in my dressing corner. As the backstage clock ticked away the final quarter-hour of
The School for Scandal
, the company prepared to celebrate a successful first performance. While others began to sigh with relief, my discomfort was now reaching a climax. I was nearly sick with anticipation.
I had been contemplating all night how rapidly I might be able to make my escape. Fortunately, Kemble refused to tolerate visitors backstage on performance nights. It was a rule upon which Sheridan insisted, and on this occasion, not even Quindell was exempt. This, I calculated, would ensure that I could throw off my cumbersome costume with its beaded, glittering petticoat, unhindered by the attendance of an undesired visitor. I would then have sufficient time to slip away while the three-act afterpiece was still being performed. Following the conclusion of the night’s entertainment, I imagined that Quindell and his companions would sit in his coach, awaiting me. After a half-hour or so, he would grow impatient and make enquiries. Only then would the servant at the stage door explain that I had departed some time ago.
With the execution of this strategy heavy upon my mind, I found the final scene, in which Charles Surface announces our engagement, extremely difficult to perform. When Maria was declaring her affection for her suitor, I was imagining how soon I might wipe the powder from my face. By Jove, I could think of nothing but witnessing that curtain fall and wresting myself free of my costume!
But alas, the curtain call still remained.
They roared for Mrs. Jordan and cheered for Kemble, and even for me there were cries of “Brava! Brava, Mrs. Lightfoot!” But while my fellow players wished to revel in this, the moment of their celebration, my feet itched to run.
When at last the curtain came down upon the first night of
The School for Scandal
, I tore away with such urgency that I very nearly tripped over the players, making their way to the stage for the afterpiece. I felt my path through the unfamiliar backstage geography of the theatre. Eagerly I pushed my way between set pieces and canvas, and passed through a variety of doors and rooms, until I spied before me that long network of curtains where I knew my dressing table to be. Striding determinedly towards my corner, I had just begun to unpin my hat and call for a dresser when I was brought to a sudden halt by the spectacle that greeted me.
There at my table sat Quindell, Tarleton, Hanger and Barrymore, with two bottles of champagne between them.
“My queen!” Quindell cried upon spying me. “My triumphant Thalia, my muse of comedy! She hath arrived!”
I swear it, I could not move for the shock of this sight.
“I did not expect you here,” said I, flustered and angry. “How is it that you are here?” I demanded loudly. It was the first time in my life that I had raised my voice at anyone. “Kemble said he did not permit—”
“My dear Thalia!” He lifted his arms to me, paying no heed to my question, “Oh, do look! Her charming face is all alight with passion! Come, darling nymph. Come here and sit upon my knee,” he slurred. “I will be damned if I allow a mere manager, or that debtor Sheridan, to dictate how I, a gentleman, should come and go.”
“Philly. Gentlemen,” said I, maintaining my distance, “if you would be so kind as to excuse me, my costume… it is late…”
“No, my darling Hetty,” interrupted my keeper, balancing a slipper
of champagne in his hand, “you have no need to dress for the occasion. I wish you to wear your costume all about town. We, your devoted slaves, shall parade you like the Queen of Sheba!” he declared with an unsteady flourish and bow.
“But I am most tired, sir,” I protested.
“Come with us, Mrs. Lightfoot!” ordered Major Hanger. “Come with us to Vauxhall, where you shall find all your friends and we shall raise toasts in your name!”
“Yes! Yes! To Vauxhall Gardens!” cried Tarleton.
“To Vauxhall,” added Barrymore, momentarily distracted by the sight of a pretty dancer.
Try as I might, I could not convince them to set me free.
“Philly, no!” I commanded. “I am in no mood…” but, encouraged by the cheers of his companions, my keeper pulled me into his arms and threw me like a sack of wool over his shoulder.
“No, Philly!” I cried again, in vain, as the entire party tumbled into his coach.
Through the steamed window, I watched in distress as the vehicle wheeled us down the Haymarket, south towards Pall Mall and further away from Clarges Street.
This could not be! This was not my plan!
“Philly…” I moaned in despair, but my protests only provoked the jests and laughter of his associates.
Into the night-darkened depths of Westminster we went, the lamps casting small pools of illumination along the streets. Across the bridge into the squalor of Southwark and then down into the fields of Lambeth, until the lights of Vauxhall Gardens could be seen shining against the moonlit waters of the Thames. Dear readers, at that moment the sight of this place held as much joy for me as might the gates of Hell.
In those days, those final years of the century now passed, there was no place in London so full as Vauxhall on a balmy summer’s night. Everywhere bodies pushed here and there, infusing the air with
fulsome stenches and heavy perfumes. Quindell led me by the hand through the crowd, his valet following three steps behind, portering a half-quaffed bottle of champagne. “All hail Mrs. Lightfoot!” he bellowed. “Make way for the Queen of the Haymarket!”
Heads full of feathers and felt hats turned to observe the commotion, while I attempted in vain to hide my eyes.
“Ave Maria!” laughed Barrymore.
“Exalted lady of the Little Theatre!” whooped Banastre Tarleton.
Just then, Quindell reached for the arm of a passing fiddler and bade him to follow us with a merry song.
I was pulled deeper into the maddening heart of the carnival, with its swaying swags of paper lanterns, the singing, the cheering, the fiddler’s chords screeching against the sounds of a nearby band of horns. With a champagne-addled Quindell at one arm and a dizzy George Hanger at the other, we moved unsteadily through the mêlée, treading upon ladies’ trains and colliding with scowling gentlemen.
“Supper! A feast to celebrate my Thalia’s triumph!” Quindell suddenly announced, directing his companions to the rows of painted supper boxes. By then our party had expanded to include two plump whores, cheeks smeared with rouge, and an Italian boy with a monkey on a ribbon.
Reader, I fear at this juncture I once again began to think as an animal might. I recalled once having observed a caged ferret twist and snap its jaws with such ferocity that it tore through the wicker that held it and escaped down a lane to freedom. I believed myself near to doing the same. With my arms restrained at either side, I felt my breath come in hard bursts. I shut my eyes and tightened my jaw. I would run, I told myself. I would fly as soon as Quindell loosened his grip.
But he did not.
We moved into the box, Quindell’s arm still proudly interlaced with mine, and Hanger pinning me against him at the other side, his fingers toying with my thigh until I smacked them down. The two
lardy whores sat at the end, entertaining Barrymore and Tarleton as the gentlemen hallooed and called out to their acquaintances.
“My gifted Mrs. Lightfoot has made her début at the Haymarket tonight!” Quindell announced to all who would listen, and, sour-faced, I accepted their well wishes. My ability to raise a smile had long since left me.
They called for punch and more champagne. Liveried waiters hurried with bottles and glasses, elbowing their way through those who had stopped and gathered at our table. A bubbling slipper was placed in my hand.
“To Mrs. Lightfoot,” they toasted. Quindell rose to his feet with difficulty. “And good sirs, do not forget the gentleman who put her upon the stage with the great Jordan, with the venerable Kemble…”
“To Quindell!” the party cried.
He smirked and held his glass aloft. “To you, gentlemen! To all the fair ladies who grace the stage! To Jordan, to Farren, to Siddons! To Lightfoot, whom I have placed among them! To my fair Thalia, who all the world will admire…”
I studied my keeper as he spoke his absurd panegyric, as if he believed he was some ancient orator. The words had begun to run into a long rambling stream.
“… I, dear friends, I shall be the envy of every man alive, so I shall… to have this celebrated queen of comedy upon my arm… They shall look longingly at my fair muse and desire her for their own… but, good sirs, she is mine… even His Royal Highness has displayed his desire for my Thalia, hey? What about that, Ban, is she not like your Perdita, hey? Desired by the Prince of Wales. Is she not as lovely, and much younger still than Mrs. Robinson, who lies abed an invalid, hey?”
Ban Tarleton did not respond favourably to this thoughtless reference. It was well known that the once-fêted Mrs. Robinson had suffered cruel treatment at his hand.
“That, sir, is enough!” he shouted, stabbing his finger at Quindell.
Tarleton attempted to rise, but was now so laden with drink that he was incapable of pushing himself from the table.
I returned my gaze to Quindell, who had completed his speech but remained upon his feet, rocking where he stood. His mouth hung flaccid, while his eyes and thick brows seemed to sag at their corners. I stared at him for another moment, until a great realization struck me. How had I failed to appreciate this? As I watched him in all his unashamed stupidity, I soon came to understand that Quindell was desperately, perilously and irrevocably drunk.
Hanger’s face, too, had slid into a delirious simper, while Barrymore and the two buxom Cyprians had strayed from the table.
It was then as if the dawn had broken. I could see my escape as plainly as day. I began to giggle and then to laugh harder until I positively shook with mirth.
“It is the champagne!” burbled Quindell
But it was not the champagne that caused me to laugh.
I had only to sit there, perhaps an hour longer. In that time it was remarkable how my spirits lifted. Why, I had changed from a huffy, dour madam to a lively spark, who called out constantly to the waiters, demanding that the gentlemen’s glasses be refilled. “Brandy!” I cried. “And a bottle of Madeira!”
It worked like poison. Two more glasses, perhaps three for Hanger, before I had the pleasure of observing each of them slip like infants into sleep. After emptying the contents of his stomach at the side of the table, Quindell was the last to slump into a comfortable stupor, his chin still glistening with vomit.
I placed my hand lightly on his arm, but he did not stir.
“Farewell, dear Quindell,” I whispered.
Lucy had waited up for me in the hall. She had drifted off to sleep in a chair, but sprang to her feet when she heard the door open.
“Oh madam,” she cried, blinking her tired eyes, “I did begin to fear that something had befallen you!”
“I could not take my leave,” I explained.
She examined my attire with a puzzled look.