The leader emptied the six francs into her pocket and held her hand out again with a rather sinister smile. 'Merci, merci, s'il vous plaît.'
Anne bit her lip. Really, she couldn't be dictated to by this odorous gang. But Sam was out at the market, buying wine with the hired manservant, and the hairdresser didn't seem inclined to offer any protection. And from the sounds of it, there was a larger body of women in the court below. Anne took another six francs from her purse and dropped it into the outstretched hand. 'C'est tout,' she said with all the British firmness she could muster.
This seemed to cheer them up; they spoke of the Citizeness's amabilité and her bonté, and one of the women seized her in a violent embrace. Anne smelt sweat and fish and something else she didn't recognise. She kept her spine rigid and waited to be released. 'Vive la nation!' one of them roared.
'Vive la nation,' Anne repeated and another woman kissed her on the cheek with a wet smack. Oh, God, she thought, must I run the gauntlet and be caressed by them all? But at this point they trooped off downstairs.
Anne sank back into her chair. She would have to have these night clothes washed before she left Paris. In the mirror her hair, half curled, looked a shambles. The hairdresser set to work again, tutting about the interruption. No one dared to stop the Poissardes from marching around with their bouquets, extorting money, he told her; next time she could save herself time and inconvenience by sending cash down as soon as they knocked on the door.' Visiter la Revolution he teased her, 'fa coute cher!'
VI. Tool Marks
Marks left on a surface by the sculptor's tools,
often best preserved in hidden areas.
THERE is a curious aspect of the British character, not often remarked on, viz. a positive fascination with the French. If the Emperor of China were to change magically into a Woman, or if the Russian serfs were to take to walking backwards, it would merit only a paragraph in a London newspaper. But when it comes to matters Gallic, no investigation is sufficiently exhaustive, no report long enough, to please the English.
In the days of the Ancien Régime, when the French lived in subjection to their Monarch, our preoccupation with them was mostly a matter of High Life. Given the close bonds of friendship and even sometimes kinship between the British aristocracy and the French, it is not surprising that this publication's readers have always taken an interest in the goings-on of the Comte de Poo, the Princesse de Pshaw, their furniture, amusements and cuisine. A certain on ne sais quoi in the atmosphere of Paris lends an air of chic to every bodice or jacket cut out in that city. Since the Revolution, the styles have altered radically, and cropped heads and transparent dresses are all the rage. Nonetheless we continue in our slavish imitation—and not only in matters of Fashion but in Politics, too.
Many Englishmen have taken to crying like jealous children for Liberty, merely because the French have it, and to demanding a further dangerous toy, Equality, of which their Grandsirfes never dreamed. But others take Mr B—ke's tack and abuse France as a sort of volcano, which spews out Anarchy in all directions. This disagreement between this esteemed Hibernian and his colleague Mr Sh-r—n threatens to cause a Schism in a certain parliamentary Party. But both sides err in granting one nation such pre-eminence. As our Prime Minister recently put it, France should be considered neither as Heaven nor Hell, but as a country in a state of some Chaos, which should be left to its own devices.
—BEAU MONDE INQUIRER, May 1791
ELIZA LOOKED OUT PAST THE KNOT OF ACTORS ON THE stage, past the proscenium, to the ranks of stalls and boxes. When it was empty, Wren's theatre looked like such a strange thing, she thought; the dried-out inside of a honeycomb.
'So tell us, Manager, how's the Old Dame to be primped and patched?' It was Jack Palmer who threw out the question. Eliza smiled at her old friend, leaning stoop-shouldered against a flat. He was wearing a large grubby bandage, because in last night's Siege of Belgrade he'd sung his way through a scimitar fight with Michael Kelly and managed to thrust his forehead so violently against Kelly's wooden blade that blood had spurted all over the stage.
Kemble's hands were pressed together in front of his face, in a priestly way. When he spoke it was in his quoting voice. 'And behold, the veil of the Temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom. If you'll excuse the blasphemy,' he added.
Eliza stared at him and then at Mrs Siddons, who looked as bewildered as anyone; clearly he hadn't told his sister what was coming.
'Come now—' began the elder Bannister.
'For some time you have all have been aware that this celebrated theatre is in a parlous state.'
'Shabby and in need of repairs, but hardly parlous, surely,' protested Mrs Hopkins.
'Am I ever imprecise?' he asked his mother-in-law. She didn't answer.
'But she's stood up all right since the reign of merry King Charles,' protested Dora Jordan, still wearing her bright smile as she jogged her pudding-faced baby on her hip.
'In the opinion of all the architects Sheridan has consulted,' Kemble told them, 'this venerable edifice, this oft-patched, much-renovated monument to British genius—'
'All right, we're with you,' Palmer interrupted, helping himself to a finger of snuff from his Bastille souvenir box. 'When's she coming down?'
'Our last performance between these hallowed walls will be June the fourth, the King's birthday. Complete demolition will follow.'
It seemed like a nasty joke. Eliza met the pouched, sad eyes of Tom King, their former manager. 'Our revels now are ended...' he quoted glumly,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve...
Eliza waited for him to trail off. 'But Kemble,' she asked, 'can it be rebuilt by September?'
Kemble shook his heavy head. 'Perspicacious as always, Miss Farren. It's not a question of mere rebuilding. The new Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, will rise lofty and awful, like some phoenix, full twice the size of its extinguished parent.'
There were murmurs of shock. 'What the hell's Sheridan up to this time?' asked young Bannister.
Jack Palmer straightened up and grinned, showing his stained teeth. 'Sherry's got a nose for the future, you must grant him that.'
Eliza turned on him. 'What do you mean?'
'Giant playhouses. The city's bulging and it's mad for entertainment. Why, look at the crowds turned away from our doors on a Siddons night—or a Jordan, or a Farren,' he added quickly with a sweeping bow that took in the three ladies.
Smooth, she thought.
'I wonder is it true,' asked Pop Kemble timidly, 'that Covent Garden's expanding too?'
So the manager didn't even confide in his own wife, it seemed. That wasn't Eliza's idea of a real marriage.
Kemble nodded. 'Mr Holland is supervising the remodelling of the rival theatre as well—but for us he will be creating something entirely new and magnificent.'
'How?' asked Eliza too sharply. Henry Holland usually worked for great lords like the Prince of Wales. 'Has Sheridan found a backer with a bottomless purse?'
Dora Jordan raised one saucy eyebrow and Eliza felt a flush on her throat. It couldn't be—surely—Derby wouldn't be fool enough to let Sheridan wind him into his schemes?
'The whole is to be achieved by public subscription,' Kemble explained. 'Debentures will be issued—'
'Deben whats?' asked Roaring Bob Bensley from the papier mâché stump he was sitting on.
Mrs Siddons spoke up. 'The vital question, as it seems to me, brother, is wherever shall we play in the meantime?'
'We have been offered a temporary home for next season at the King's Theatre in the Haymarket,' said Kemble.
Eliza had heard enough; she muttered her excuses and walked into the wings. The King's was a vast barn of a place, used for operas and ballets, all wrong as a temporary home for spoken drama. She'd worked at Drury Lane for thirteen years and the thought of its walls bein
g pounded into dust was more than disconcerting.
Alone in the dressing room, she reread the invitation she'd received that morning. Come, o Thalia, I beg of you a boon, it read in Horace Walpole's spidery hand, lend your sparkling presence to a little gathering at Strawberry Hill next Wednesday, to celebrate our dear Mrs Darner's return from Iberian wastes. Dinner at four, it ended more practically.
Her mother popped her mob cap in the door. 'Are you at home, my dear?' Fully dressed, she meant.
Our dear Mrs Darner. Eliza would have to send a polite refusal. Could the whimsical antiquary really not know that she and his cousin hadn't been on speaking terms for more than a year? 'What is it, Mother?' she asked without turning her head.
'Lord Derby begs the favour of being perhaps permitted to pay his compliments.'
Sometimes Margaret Farren's borrowed speech set her daughter's teeth on edge. 'By all means.'
Derby picked his way past the open costume trunks to take a seat in the corner; there was no room for his footman, who waited in the corridor. Mrs Farren took her usual stool and picked up the stocking she was darning. (Years ago Eliza had tried to make her resign these duties to the dressers, but the only concession her mother had made was to swap her darning for a more genteel knotting bag when they were out in company.) Derby had come straight from the Commons and he seemed very agitated about a showdown over the French question, which had concluded with Burke denouncing his former protégé Sheridan as a gull of the Jacobins. 'They're two of our strongest pillars,' he groaned. 'This could very well split the Party.'
'Surely not,' murmured Eliza, her mind still on Walpole's invitation.
Derby leaned his chin on the knob of his cane. 'When the Bastille fell, I never anticipated it would cause such aftershocks in this country. Oh, I passed Citizen Stanhope's carriage on the Strand,' he added more cheerfully after a pause.
'I thought he didn't keep one?'
'Well, that's the joke of the thing; the radical Earl still won't answer to Your Lordship, but he evidently found he couldn't manage without a carriage—so the compromise he's hit on is the coat of arms has been painted over, like in France!'
Eliza laughed, but her eyes were on Walpole's invitation. She moved to fold it up.
'Ah, yes,' said Derby, recognising it, 'this Strawberry Hill dinner sounds rather fun, doesn't it? I haven't been rowed up to Twickenham in years.'
'I don't believe ... I may not be free on Wednesday.'
The Earl sighed. 'Your objection is to Mrs D., I assume?'
Eliza stiffened.
'I must confess—I didn't mean to pry—I asked her about the puzzling breach in your friendship.'
Her voice came out like a bullet. 'When?'
'Oh, before her departure for Lisbon. She said little, but she seemed mortified.'
'Yes,' said Eliza, very low.
'Ah, so she does have something to reproach herself with, then!' Derby sounded as if he'd solved a puzzle. 'It's a shame; during our wonderful theatricals at Richmond House Mrs Damer seemed to like you so much—took to you like a long-lost sister, in fact—and I'm sadly disappointed that she let some old scruple of birth or rank get in the way in the end.'
Eliza winced.
'Why, she talks so Whiggishly, parading her liberal views—'
'You misunderstand, My Lord,' she said. Oh, God, will this subject never stay buried? What if he accosted Anne Damer about her snobbish views on Wednesday? 'It wasn't she but circumstances that curtailed our friendship.' Eliza flicked a look at her mother, who was examining her needle as if she were alone in the dressing room. She felt a weary impulse to get this over with, since Derby, for once, was refusing to drop the subject. 'There was ... well, a scandal. This is really very painful for me to speak of, particularly to you.'
Margaret Farren's head had shot up; it was the first she'd heard of any scandal. She met Eliza's eyes in the mirror for a moment, then dipped to her darning again.
Eliza cleared her throat, the way inexperienced actresses did. 'Almost two years ago I was told—I was made to understand—that Mrs Damer's ... amiability, her warmth of friendship, was being looked askance at in some quarters. Sneered at, maligned, you know. Libelled.' She could feel the blood creeping up her neck. She decided not to mention the fact that she herself had been named; that would only distress the Earl further. 'I was shown a lewd verse about Mrs Damer—'
Derby's face cleared. 'Oh, not that old Sapphist stuff.'
Eliza stared at him. It wasn't relief that she felt; she wanted to slap him.
'Forgive my flippancy, my dear. It's only, don't you know, that silly story must date back a dozen years or more.'
'I am aware of that,' she said, almost growling.
He was wearing a broad smile. 'And none of us—no one with any sense—credited it then, nor wouldn't now either. Less, in fact, since the lady in question is now past forty! Why, the very idea that a scholarly widow would indulge in such Oriental vices...' He let out a yelp of laughter.
Put like that, it did sound ridiculous. Eliza stared at her buffed fingernails.
'It's tommyrot, if you'll forgive the pun,' Derby went on, not even lowering his voice. 'The pamphleteers say the same thing of the poor Queen of France and half her friends, just for fantastical malice. I probably shouldn't mention this in female company,' he added, 'but I met a real Sapphist once, a German countess. She was an extraordinary creature—leering at all the maids and mannish in the extreme, with a hairy mole on her chin.'
She felt dizzy with embarrassment. 'These indecencies may be funny to you, My Lord—'
'Oh, come now, Miss Farren,' said Derby, rushing over to seize her hand in his, 'I didn't mean to offend your sensibilities. I do apologise. I've been rather a boor.'
Margaret Farren was staring at their joined fingers as if an alarm were going off in her head. Eliza took back her hand, but traded a small tight smile for it.
'I simply can't bear that two delightful ladies like you and Mrs Damer should be alienated from each other by such nonsense.'
'I never said I believed it,' said Eliza incoherently. 'I knew there couldn't be any truth in it. Not that I know anything about these things, but Mrs Damer isn't a bit like ... the female you describe.'
'Well, then,' said Derby, resuming his seat.
'It's not as simple as that,' she said through her teeth. 'Oh, no doubt it's different for men of the World, at Newmarket, or in the dining room at Brooks's; the Prince has some intimates with the most appalling reputations. But men seem to have a firm foothold on the height where they stand, whereas we women—how we totter and wobble, and the least tug at our skirts can bring us crashing down!'
'You put it very eloquently,' he murmured.
'Reputation's a harsh goddess. In my position—' Eliza waved at the narrow walls of the dressing room and hoped to God that neither Mrs Siddons nor Mrs Hopkins was about to walk into the middle of this scene—'I can't afford to rouse her wrath by allowing myself to be associated with such an unspeakable vice. I'm no great lady, I'm plain Miss Farren, soon to be an actress without a theatre'—Derby looked puzzled by that, but she hadn't the patience to explain—'and I can't weather what you call nonsense."
After a moment he said, 'I can see I've angered you.'
'No, no,' she said unconvincingly. Her heart was hammering.
'Again, forgive me. But I have to dispute one point: you're no mere Miss. You're the idol of the English nation and your position on Olympus is unassailable.' Derby's voice was smooth as cream. 'I only wish you'd confided your fears two years back and I could have said what I say now: this bizarre rumour withered away long ago.'
'It sprang up again, then,' she snapped. 'Mr Siddons wrote this epigram—'
'William Siddons?' asked Derby, incredulous. 'I never heard a thing about it. But in any case he's a nobody. All these scandalmongers are nobodies: jealous gossips, petty poetasters, newspaper hacks. They don't matter. They're just the scum that floats on society's river; the hungry curs
snapping at our heels. An age of liberty is coming, my dear; the old proprieties and timidities won't matter any more.' His beady eyes were gleaming. 'Why, your daughters will laugh to hear how rule-bound and hedged-in your sex used to be back in 1791!'
Your daughters. It came to Eliza then that the Earl expected to be widowed in time to marry and get children on her. For all his respectful gallantry, he never seemed to doubt that it would happen. His confidence staggered her.
Derby had remembered his point. 'And I can assure you that the true members of the Beau Monde—men and women alike—have the greatest respect for Mrs Damer. Speaking for myself, I'm honoured to count her as my friend.'
'I was too,' said Eliza, hoarse, avoiding her mother's eyes. 'But I'm afraid it's too late.'
'Surely not.'
'I treated her coldly,' said Eliza, wanting to cry. 'I dropped her and I wouldn't give an explanation. I didn't know what to say. I still don't.'
'But do come along on Wednesday. Won't you?' he asked, rising to take his leave.
'Perhaps,' she said, miserable.
When he'd gone Eliza turned to face Margaret Farren, who was clearly in a sulk. 'Mother, I know you're wondering why I never told you this before.'
A loud sniff. "No, no. Such filthy things are better not spoken of.'
Eliza wasn't sure how to take that. After a minute she asked, 'What do you advise, in view of what Derby said—should I go to Strawberry Hill or not?'
But Mrs Siddons and Mrs Hopkins came in together just then, discussing their mutual dislike of Gothic melodrama and the best shade of greasepaint for scars.
ANNE ARRIVED at Strawberry Hill at half past three. Walpole, encased in an old-fashioned but finely cut grey silk coat, told her she was looking marvellously Spanish. 'Not tanned, of course, but there's a warm glow about you; it suits your eyes and your dark hair.'
'Who's coming to this dinner?'
'Your sister, Richmond, your parents, Derby, Miss Farren and her mother, and Sir Charles Bunbury to even up the sexes.'