‘Major Jack Absolute of the 16th Light Dragoons.’
‘Burgoyne’s own,’ André murmured. ‘You weren’t with that noble man at Saratoga by any chance?’
‘I was. I brought his dispatches here to General Howe.’
‘Oh, that was you? I am on the General’s staff but was absent when they arrived.’
Of course. He knew he’d heard the name before. Major John André was the officer responsible for précising the reports Jack had brought. He was Howe’s intelligence as Jack had been Burgoyne’s. It suddenly put the amiability of the man’s face into a different perspective, as a mask always will.
André still held Jack’s hand quite in the manner of an old friend. Suddenly, the pressure of his grip increased. ‘Wait! Jack Absolute? You’re not the Jack Absolute, are you? From Sheridan’s Rivals?’
Jack flushed. His infamy had leaped the ocean then. ‘I rather think it is the other way around, sir. That … Irishman misappropriated my name and certain … aspects of my past, for his drama.’
André’s hand was now pumping Jack’s. ‘By all that’s marvellous! I have just formed a little theatre company. Think of me as Philostrate – “For how shall we beguile this lazy time if not with some delight.” ‘ He laughed, as musically as Louisa. ‘We call ourselves The Thespians and there is a small but quite acceptable playhouse here, the Southwark. And, sir, sir, this is the most wonderful thing! We open next week … with The Rivals.’
Jesus! Would that play never cease to haunt him?
Holding on still, André continued, ‘You don’t, by any chance, perform, do you, Major?’
Summoning his disdain took a little time. Louisa jumped into the gap. ‘He does indeed. I acted with him on the voyage over. Jack has a wonderful presence upon the stage.’
‘And one of our Thespians has just dropped out,’ André continued. ‘He was inconsiderate enough to get himself shot in the leg while on patrol. He’ll walk again but not act any time soon. Left me in a predicament, I have to say. Thought I was going to have to go on for him as well as stage the piece. Too important a role for a divided attention – for he was to play your namesake, sir.’ André added his second hand to Jack’s single one. Those heavily lashed eyes were at their most imploring. ‘Why don’t you take it on?’
It was such an outrageous idea that it actually stopped Jack’s breath. While he sought for it, Louisa gave a delighted laugh.
He looked from her back to the Major and, detaching his hand from André’s fervent grip, he said stiffly, ‘Since that jackanapes Sheridan abused me so, I have been pestered by every chairman, porter and ladies’ maid crying, “Are you that Jack Absolute?” And you would have me, in a land so far blessedly free of this calumny, personify myself?’ The words could not have been laden with any more contempt.
Yet they seemed to do little to put off the Major. He countered, ‘But who better to defend the reputation, to give us the truth of the man than the man himself? Also …’ and here he glanced briefly at Louisa, ‘I can assure you the rest of the casting is equally strong. For example, could you wish for a better stage partner than our lovely Miss Reardon?’
Of course. Louisa would be playing Lydia, Jack Absolute’s stage lover, based on the bloody girl Jack had made such a fool of himself over in Bath all those years ago, the story Sheridan had stolen for his bloody plot. And they wanted him to play himself, to make stage love to the incarnation of his youthful folly, played by a woman he so desired. To parade his history and his feelings before an audience that would include the General Staff of the British army, the cream of Loyalist society, as well, no doubt, as every spy in Philadelphia, including the man he’d been sent there to kill? ‘Never,’ he roared. ‘If I was to be boiled alive, pulled apart between stallions, offered the key to the Seraglio of the Sultan and a thousand nights to enjoy it. Never! Never. Never. Never!’
– SIXTEEN –
The Rehearsal
‘If she holds out now, the devil is in it.’
Jack looked out into the emptiness, waited. Nothing. At the first rehearsal, that line had conjured a huge laugh from the cast. In the week of rehearsals since, it had received not even a chuckle.
Perhaps he had delivered the line badly? It was the cursed thing about this playing. Did one let the line speak for itself? Or did one need to emphasize it for the audience, lead them to the laugh? ‘Speak the speech, trippingly upon the tongue,’ Hamlet had cautioned.
But Hamlet never played Philadelphia on a freezing November night! Jack breathed out, saw his breath stream away above the candles on the forestage. He shivered, not just from the cold November air, then turned his attention back to the one warm thing there. Before delivering the line, he had kissed his Lydia. And Louisa was still in his arms.
Was it the kiss that had affected his delivery of the line? Three times they had played this scene, three times they had kissed; and each time the kiss was different. The first, on the day after their reunion at Alphonse’s, had been passionate – at least on his behalf. She had broken it off quickly, embarrassed before the other actors it seemed. With the second kiss, two days later, she was the one with the passion, he who felt strained.
And this third? He looked at Louisa now as she rose up in his arms, drawing breath for her next line. Yes, it was indeed why he had said the line so poorly.
For this third kiss was cold. Functional. For the stage alone.
‘Now could I fly with him to the Antipodes! But my persecution is not yet come to a crisis!’ Louisa declaimed, a hand to her brow in the approved style. The other actors, playing his father and her aunt – a colonel of engineers and his wife, both much given to over-egging the comic aspects of their roles – came on. The scene concluded and Jack was soon in the wings, Louisa beside him though rapidly moving away to change her dress for the next scene, leaving Jack to reflect on the quality of kisses.
Those three dissatisfying moments were the most intimate exchanges of his whole time in Philadelphia. Louisa’s coolness, which he’d sensed almost from the moment of their reunion, had, to his confusion, persisted, grown, like the ever-heavier snowfalls that covered the city each night. And the rehearsals were indeed the only time they seemed able to be together. Though these only occupied a portion of each day, the rest of her hours were divided between caring for her ill mother – who she’d brought down from New York and who was still sickly and house-bound – and the social swirl that was the city’s society. Balls, dinners, recitals – Jack, resplendent in his new uniform, attended them too, knowing that somewhere among the elite crowd might also be his quarry, Diomedes, or another who would lead Jack to him, and perhaps also to Cato, Diomedes’s superior. He circled, talked, questioned, his passion for vengeance undiminished since parting from his betrayed General. He had so far discovered nothing but rumour. Yet, in the deepest part of his heart, he knew his motives were not pure, that there was another reason he attended these functions – to see Louisa. This was not HMS Ariadne, with people always a thin plank away. This was a city; and the mansions, where the balls were held, had many rooms. Surely, he’d reasoned, it would be possible to steal Louisa away to one of them, to be alone, to talk, at the very least? In the forest they had seemed to share every thought in the long evenings lit by the campfire’s light. He missed that intimacy, especially in its contrast to their conversations in Philadelphia, limited, as they were, to Sheridan’s on-stage exchanges and snatched whispers in the wings. At the balls and gatherings, he’d watch her, wait for an opportunity. But she was never alone, being either with the two Peggys, or at the centre of a circle of admiring young officers; conspicuous among whom, for both his looks and his captivating ways, was John André.
Each night Jack would return to his lodgings alone and brood on the changes in her. Was it possible that the feelings she’d had for him, so strong in the forest, had dissipated during their brief separation? And had those affections transferred so swiftly to another?
Jack peered now around the prosce
nium arch into the darkened auditorium. Their director was out there, and with a little time before his next entrance, he decided to visit him. André was the other reason he’d agreed to play himself in The Rivals. Who better to glean information from, as to spy rings and double agents in Philadelphia, than Howe’s intelligence?
He’d even thought he might confide in André. Caution had held him back; for it was possible that Diomedes lurked undetected at the heart of Howe’s command as he had at the heart of Burgoyne’s and Jack did not want another officer scaring him off. Also, conversations with the younger man did nothing to make Jack want to take him into his confidence.
In a week of hints and gentle probing, Jack had confirmed little other than, yes, there were undoubtedly spies in Philadelphia and, yes, once the play was up, the Major would devote himself completely to hunting them down. Indeed, André, in his casualness, was quite unlike any other intelligence officer Jack had met. With almost daily Rebel raids on the city, with English patrols being ambushed as if news of their coming had been sent ahead, there should have been plenty to concern and occupy André. But he seemed to wish only to talk of London theatre, his obsession, and Jack’s friendship with the admired Sheridan. The war, their similar roles in it, seemed to interest the younger man hardly at all. The only other times the languid young man would animate was when he was addressing Louisa. Could Jack be the only one who noticed how André’s eyes glinted when he regarded her, how his attention pulled his whole body towards her when they talked?
Jack made his way into the auditorium. His rival was near the back, his sketching pad as ever beside him, though now it was filling with notes to himself and the players. Jack, with a nervous glance at the scribbles – he had no doubt that some of the criticisms would be aimed at him – sat beside him and watched the next scene. Quite soon, it reached the point where the stage Irishman, Sir Lucius O’Trigger, was due to make his entrance. As usual, he didn’t.
‘Henry,’ André called to the Colonel, ‘read in for him, will you, so the others can say their lines?’ As an appallingly faked Irish accent came down from the stage, André turned to Jack, saw his expression. ‘I know, dear fellow. But he will be here.’
‘When?’ The actor personifying Sir Lucius had suddenly decided, after only one rehearsal, that he did not want to be a player. But instead of recasting, André had learned that an officer who had only just played the part in New York (‘Alas, Jack,’ André had said, ‘it appears that ours is not to be the premiere performance in this land’) was bound for Philadelphia. Each day he was promised, each day he failed to arrive.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘On the night we open?’
‘Jack, rest easy. He knows the lines. I can take him through the blocking in an hour.’
‘And the duel?’ The characters, Jack and Sir Lucius, were meant to cross swords over Lydia. Despite his dislike of most aspects of playing, Jack had been almost looking forward to a spirited stage duel – even if, with his injury, he would have to fight left-handed. Most theatrical fights were dreadful – if he had to sit through one more Mercutio and Tybalt limp-wristedly flailing at each other! So he’d carefully worked out a few ideas.
‘Sorry, Jack. I know your hopes but we’ll just have to do it as play-scripted. You cross blades only and then the rest will rush on and separate you.’
Disappointed, Jack rose and walked back to the stage. His next entrance was coming up. Why did I let myself be talked into this? he thought, mentally giving himself a good kick in the rear. Why? And then he saw the ultimate ‘why’, standing in the wings, leaning on a pedestal, wearing her change of dress. This one was cut especially low and, even though it was just the rehearsal, she had used some powders there, highlighted and shaded, though her charms had no need of enchancement. Whose benefit was that for, he wondered. She was leaning forward slightly, those eyes alive with mockery at some compliment the very young Ensign, Anton Hervey, who played Acres, was obviously paying her.
The Ensign left her for his scene. Jack moved behind Louisa. Her face was to the stage and she did not hear him come.
‘Can we meet tonight?’ he whispered.
‘Oh, Jack!’ She turned, startled. ‘What did you say?’
He kept his voice low. ‘Tonight, Louisa. Come to my house. The other officers are on patrol. We …’
He hesitated. She flushed. ‘Oh, Jack. You know how I would love to. But John has called an extra rehearsal at his lodgings, for myself and Julia.’ She pointed at Peggy Chew, mouthing lines in the wings opposite. ‘And then he will give us a late supper.’ She looked away, then back to add, ‘You could join us?’
She had splayed her fan, fluttered it now before her face. Was it that prop that gave something of the stage to the invitation? Was there not something more than half-hearted about it? He felt heat now, at last, rising in his face. ‘I would not wish to intrude, madam,’ he said, bowing slightly, though to her back, as she was already making her next entrance.
He had attended one such supper before. But the two Pegs, André, some of his brother officers … they were all so damnably young! The men had barely seen combat, the girls – they were little more than that – had been raised in a restricted, harmless society. He enjoyed company, was considered a spirited companion; he could carouse with the best. But with his splinted hand and his fever pallor, his recent experiences still haunting his face … he felt like a gnarled old wolfhound allowed to lie before the fire with tumbling puppies. He’d said little, drank too much … especially when he’d again noted the exchanges between Louisa and John André. Of course she flirted, it was society’s way and indiscriminate; yet for the handsome Major she seemed to reserve a special attention, a lingering of eyes.
He watched her from the wings, his heart quickening, driving heat again into his face. Again, he thought back to the forest, their time there, curling around her each night, bound by the word he’d given to her father. And another word came to him, the one she’d called him then.
‘Fool,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody fool!’
Rehearsal over, comments on their performances given, the cast dispersed.
He had no further conversation with Louisa, no desire to. He watched her helped into a cloak, spread over the last dress she’d worn on stage, the low-cut one. Obviously what enticed in the theatre would do so equally over supper.
Jack left, saying goodbye to no one. Once outside, he was somewhat at a loss so he tucked himself into a doorway opposite the playhouse to consider his options. Snow was falling again, adding to the prodigious quantities that had already transformed the city into a slippery, muffled cocoon. A bitter wind came with it, so that the snow fell slantways, driving into the very few people who struggled through the streets. Shrugging deeper into his greatcoat, pulling down his tricorn hat, Jack wondered where to seek shelter. There was always the Mess of the 16th. Jack had already passed several pleasant nights there, taking comfort in the simple conversation of fellow soldiers, men he’d known in that other life, those other wars. There was good food, plenty of grog … and not a mention of which greasepaint provided the greatest effect, or the absurd inflexions of a fellow performer. Suddenly it seemed a very good place to be and Jack was just about to forsake his paltry shelter when the playhouse door opposite swung open and Anton Hervey, Peggy Chew, John André, and Louisa Reardon stepped out. Without even considering it, Jack let them get fifty yards ahead then began to follow.
He had stalked many people down numerous city streets and he knew how to remain unnoticed, but in this case there was little need for caution, his quarry quite absorbed in their own, high-spirited company. He followed them down the main thoroughfare, then through some winding back streets. They were undoubtedly heading toward the Major’s lod- gings. It was in a less favoured area than Jack’s, for André, though of good enough society, did not possess Jack’s sudden wealth. He shared a sprawl of rooms above a baker’s with six other officers from his regiment; the heat from the ovens below kept them snug
, he said.
They were soon there and the party went up immediately. Opposite the house, noise and smoke leaked from the half-open door of a tavern. There was a grimy, lead-framed bow window that gave on to the street. Considering that he may as well be warm and liquored while he waited and watched, he entered.
It was a soldier’s place, not an officer’s, but the inhabitants were too far into the evening to give his well-cut clothes much notice. Their attention was largely focused on a civilian fiddle player in the corner, who sawed and bowed with vigour and some skill, his efforts luring several couples to the jig. Fetching himself a large mug of heated rum, Jack pushed to the window. The corner seat was taken by a corporal from a Highland regiment, who balanced a tough-looking, pock-marked, ‘lady of the town’ upon his bare knee. When Jack opened his coat enough to reveal the officer’s gorget at his neck, she looked as if she would argue, but the Scotsman dragged her off by the hand, saying, ‘Dinna fash, limmer. Awa to dance!’ A little smile came as Jack thought on Angus MacTavish and his unintelligible ways. Then he rubbed a patch of the window clean, loosened his coat, and settled to his vigil.
An hour passed, people came into the house opposite but none left. Jack finished the rum and, despite a sudden desire to get drunk, now ordered a pint of beer from a serving girl. She appeared to want more than the four pence he slipped her and she was comely enough beneath her grubby face and patched clothes. But Jack had thoughts for only one woman that night. He would wait and watch for her.