“Kean, sir. Edmund Kean,” answered the stocky young man.
“Time is money, and you have wasted both, Master Kean. Were it not for engaging your services, such as they are, the company would be spending the afternoon at the Black Swan, instead of rehearsing in a beerless theatre.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is the first time I have appeared in a tragedy.”
“Well, Ned,” the manager replied with extreme condescension. “If I have any say in the matter, you will never work in one again! Back to work, everyone!” he commanded.
C.J. would wager that time had erased all memory of the name of the manager of Bath’s Theatre Royal in 1801; but Edmund Kean, now merely an inexperienced youth at the brink of an illustrious, though tempestuous, career as one of the great tragic actors of the English stage, was—despite this inauspicious debut—going to prove his employer’s prognostication to be dramatically incorrect.
What an amazing place to be . . . right here, right now! And she had to leave it as soon as possible! Was there no justice?
The ruckus following Master Kean’s portentous entrance and the attendant histrionics of the theatre manager afforded C.J. the opportunity to slink backstage. She was on the verge of combing the racks of medieval robes in search of an appropriate disguise when she felt a hand clamp down upon her shoulder.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” rhetorically asked the burly stagehand, mercifully neither Turpin nor Twist. C.J. panicked. The first defense that sprang to her mind was to feign total ignorance. And what better way to do that than to appear not to understand a word of English.
“Pardon?” asked C.J., widening her eyes. “Je ne comprends pas l’anglais.” Pretending to be French might not work, but it wasn’t as lame as saying, “This is the first time I have appeared in a tragedy.” She surmised that the irony would be lost somehow.
The stagehand scowled. “Listen, Frenchy, I dunno how you got in ’ere, but this ain’t a museum.”
“Je suis . . . perdue?” C.J. replied in her most plaintive voice, indicating that she had gotten lost.
“Well, you just get along now,” the stagehand advised as he steered her toward the backstage door that opened onto her favorite alley. “If the manager sees you back ’ere, there’ll be ’ell to pay. ’E’s already in a snit over that damn clumsy fool Kean causin’ such a ruckus.”
C.J. nodded and smiled like an uncomprehending idiot, and when she found herself in the narrow lane outside of the theatre, just for good measure she looked about like a confused rabbit, in case the stagehand was watching her. Which he was. “Down the lane, mamselle,” he boomed, as though her inability to understand his words was due to deafness, rather than a language barrier. He gesticulated wildly in the direction of Orchard Street when C.J. deliberately began to head the opposite way, which would have landed her smack in the middle of a whitewashed stone wall. Afraid that she might be overplaying her hand, she looked back and, grinning foolishly at him, scampered out to the main thoroughfare.
The handbill posted outside the front of the theatre announced the final performance of De Montfort that night. Since this play alone appeared to be the “open sesame,” C.J. would have to avail herself of what would undoubtedly be her last opportunity to find some modern medicine for Lady Dalrymple.
Her state of agitation served her well for a change. On the pretext of feeling faint, and with the certainty that the cool night air would do her good, she persuaded the countess to permit her an early evening constitutional. C.J. kissed her “aunt” good-bye and made sure that she had enough money in her reticule to purchase a theatre ticket in case her stage-door shenanigans backfired yet again.
Saunders discreetly noted the time that Miss Welles departed the residence for the second time that day with no stated destination, no call to pay, nor particular errand to run.
THE SIDE DOOR to the Theatre Royal had been deliberately left ajar that evening for the purposes of generating cross-ventilation, so C.J. slipped in unnoticed amid the usual backstage hubbub that occurred during major scene shifts. Elaborate drops were raised, replaced, and lowered, and the louvered flats rumbled into place while dozens of journeyman actors scrambled to change from one costume into the next.
And once again, just in time for Siddons’s dramatic entrance as Jane de Montfort, C.J. managed to cross the stage and exit into the dark vortex that she prayed would convey her home.
Emerging from the darkness, she staggered back onto the stage, completely dazed. Ralph, the By a Lady assistant set designer, who in C.J.’s absence had made considerable progress on the Steventon parlor, was the first to come to her aid. “Holy shit, what happened to you!” he exclaimed, hammer still in hand. He gave a shout, and the entire production team came running over.
“We’ve spent the past day and a half considering possible replacements for you; Harvey was convinced you’d fallen off the planet. Haven’t you gotten my messages? I’ve been looking for you from here to kingdom come!” Beth said.
“Where have you been?” Humphrey Porter asked her.
“Kingdom come, I think,” C.J. replied, still in somewhat of a fog. The theatre lights were so bright it was hard to see, let alone think, straight. “I . . .” C.J. shook her head, not knowing what else to say that would absolve her of any further inquiry. “Personal business,” she murmured.
Beth flipped open her cell phone and punched up a number. She held up a finger to C.J. as she waited for the call to connect. “Harvey,” she said after a few moments, “we’ve found her.” Beth moved downstage to enjoy some privacy for the remainder of her conversation with the producer. “Right,
