In a carefully ordered procession, each “monk” had his turn with the newly baptized “virgin,” declaiming the phrase “in love and friendship and in Lucifer’s name!” before he sought entry, to the loud cheers of his audience. One “brother” who was even more exuberant than the rest, dislodged her mask, pushing it back from her face and over her hairline.
C.J., who had a relatively good view of the proceedings from behind her pillar, gasped when she discovered the identity of the “novitiate” and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her shock. The young “virgin” who had been enduring such repeated defloration was none other than Lady Rose, whom C.J. had witnessed so cruelly “cut” in the Assembly Rooms for parading the barely discernible results of her illegitimate pregnancy. Could the girl have fallen so fast? What, C.J. wondered, had happened to Lord Featherstone, the babe’s father, who had seemed so enamored of his lady?
Having witnessed a variety of lewd displays this evening, the only thing that truly scandalized C.J. was the predicament of Lady Rose, and she was powerless to do anything but stew in her anger about the unfairness of it all and the insensitivity of the society they lived in. For one unfortunate indiscretion, the ill-fated aristocratic beauty was doomed to a whore’s destiny. While the individual members of the secret order continued to initiate Lady Rose into their sacred rites, C.J. slipped out the door and retraced her steps to Mrs. Lindsey’s noisy parlor, where the revels showed no signs of abating. She opened the establishment’s main portal. Peering cautiously down the street and finding it empty, C.J. heaved a relieved sigh and headed home, grimly acknowledging that if someone had set Saunders to spy on her movements, she was not entirely out of danger.
Chapter Eighteen
A chapter crowded with incident, in which our heroine eavesdrops on a tidbit of theatrical history and engages in some impromptu acting of her own; Saunders’s suspicious nature is further piqued; and a dream come true presents some nightmarish choices.
HAVING SAFELY REACHED the countess’s town house, C.J. considered the ramifications of penning a note to Lady Wickham the following morning, asking her to release Mary Sykes. The resolute little scullery maid was the only person C.J. would trust to care for the countess while she tried to return to her own era to obtain the modern medicine that could save Lady Dalrymple’s life. But after agonizing for several hours, arguing both sides of the issue with herself, C.J. ultimately thought better of sending such a missive. The less Lady Wickham, or anyone on the outside, learned of her business, the better.
LATER, EAGER TO RETURN to her own world before it was too late, C.J. stood at the back of the darkened Theatre Royal watching the mid-afternoon rehearsal, looking for an opportunity to slip through time. At first she thought she was seeing De Montfort, because the supernumeraries’ costumes were more or less the same generic medieval garb, but as soon as the leading lady set foot onstage, it was apparent that quite a different play was being acted.
Siddons was wearing the most expensive “nightdress” that C.J. had ever seen—a gossamer, cloth-of-gold confection with a train that trailed behind her like several feet of white cobwebs. Candle in hand, she made an unearthly Lady Macbeth. Although she had little time to waste, how could C.J. not savor this once-in-a-lifetime chance to witness the legendary tragedienne’s “innovative” interpretation of the famous sleepwalking scene?
True to Darlington’s description, Sarah Siddons did not break stride from her somnambulant state, but hung the long taper in its brass holder on a conveniently contrived crook in the stone walls of Dunsinane, permitting an astonished “doctor” and “gentlewoman” to marvel as she rubbed her hands together in the futile attempt to blot out the remembrance of Lady Macbeth’s bloody deeds.
C.J., too, was transfixed. And this was only a rehearsal. What struck her as so extraordinary was not the “newness” of Siddons’s stage business, but the woman’s undeniable majesty. She had true “star power.” Very few stage actresses of C.J.’s own era projected such strength and confidence. Unfortunately, C.J. knew she had to tear herself away to try to sneak backstage. In an effort to avoid calling attention to herself, she stealthily hugged the wall of the orchestra stalls.
The theatre manager himself applauded Mrs. Siddons’s brilliant performance in the rehearsal and released her in order to work on the opening scene of the play. The actors playing the three witches were called to the stage, and those portraying Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, and Lennox—with what seemed like a dozen attendants—were told to stand by for their entrance.
The prompter called out the words music, and fog, and thunder and lightning, so the witches could time their stage business and be properly cued for their lines. They had no sooner begun when an actor attired in tights, deliberately tattered inky robes, and an enormous headdress that severely limited his visibility—and carrying a huge bowl overflowing with disgusting-looking animal parts—stumbled and fell. Like a series of dominoes, the extras waiting to enter with the Scottish nobility toppled over one another in a cacophony of clanking halberds, claymores, and round, target-shaped shields. To C.J., it seemed like a miscue straight out of Monty Python.
“Stop!” roared the manger. “Come out here, you!” he commanded the “evil spirit” busily adjusting his top-heavy headdress, which had gone woefully askew in the melee. “Who is that?” he demanded of the assembled cast. The young man dressed as the goblin stepped forward. “Remove your mask. I can’t see your
