By the time Sarah Siddons made her debut there in 1778 in Sir John Vanbrugh’s comedy The Provok’d Husband, the Theatre Royal was already a raging success. It goes without saying that had C.J. Welles known of John Palmer, she would have freely acknowledged him a debt of gratitude for the creation of a most remarkable time-travel conveyance.
At the present moment, another, quite different, conveyance was pulling up alongside the façade of Leake’s bookseller’s emporium, adjacent to the post office. This one was the not-quite-literal “progeny” of brewer and theatrical manager John Palmer (the younger), who had taken it upon himself to address the issue of postal reform; his efforts resulted in the residents of the golden city of Bath receiving their letters and parcels from London a full day earlier than ever before. This pilgrimage, made by parcels and up to four passengers, took all of a fleet thirteen hours, necessitating a pair of horses, changed every six or eight miles. Each stop was made with equal alacrity, as the mailbags were ready for the driver upon his arrival; and the guard, who rode with the coachman on the box, would deposit the mail sacks from each destination in the boot of the carriage, permitting the driver to retain his position. Thus the journey could be effected with all due speed.
Stepping from the light coach emblazoned with His Majesty’s crest was a ruddy-faced gentleman dressed in a quaintly grand manner: his elaborate white jabot foaming like a frothy meringue over his bright green coat and striped silk waistcoat. Puffing and winded from the mere exertion of descending from the Royal Mail, the person in question gave every indication of having once been handsome of face and figure, in possession at one time of a full head of wheat-blond hair—now tending to thinness—while his physique, once trim, had become rather thick waisted and stout. No doubt he had come to take the waters for his gouty left foot.
“Give a hand there! Caution, lad!” he boomed at one of the young scamps who made a penny or two by helping Royal Mail travelers with their baggage. The boy handed the wheezing wayfarer his valise, a weather-beaten brown leather affair that looked to the child as though it had seen as much abuse as its red-faced owner, who, he noted on receiving only a shilling’s tip, smelled of gin, tobacco, and garlic.
“Very nice. Very, verrah nice,” the man slurred, and one might have thought he was admiring the magnificent Gothic architecture of Bath Abbey, had it not been for the passing dairy maid whose buttresses were nearly as prominently displayed. The Marquess of Manwaring extended his hand toward the healthy young woman to sample her wares, but the girl was too quick for the besotted old sot.
“Just what do you think yer about, sirrah?” she demanded indignantly. “Manhandling a poor girl right out in the middle of the street!”
“Not manhandling, young lady. Manwaring. I’m a marquess,” the would-be violator belched.
“I don’t care if yer the bloody Prince of Wales!” the dairymaid exclaimed. “Yer a gouty old pervert, that’s what you are. I’ll thank ye to keep yer hands to yerself.”
The marquess felt a meaty hand clamp down upon his shoulder. “That’s my good coat,” he protested. “And I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!”
“You are addressing a constable, sirrah.” Constable Mawl drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet. He loved playing to a crowd.
“Do you not know whom you address, Constable Mawl?” the gouty-footed man thundered theatrically. “I am the Marquess of Manwaring.”
“You’re also drunk and disorderly, your lordship,” asserted Mawl, taken down a peg by the realization that the marquess might have an influential friend or two who could easily put in an ill word, triggering the loss of his constabulary quicker than he could down a pint of ale on a hot summer afternoon.
“I am an actor!” the portly man proclaimed.
“And not a bad one,” murmured one of the Royal Mail passengers to one of the impromptu assemblage who had gathered to witness the show. “I saw him play Bob Acres in Newcastle. He’s no Garrick, mind you, but he did Sheridan proud.”
“His Dogberry in Bristol was well received,” piped up another passerby. “Shame his own family didn’t catch him in that role. He was never as good before or since.”
Constable Mawl, who prided himself on having ears, as well as eyes, affixed to the back of his head, addressed the crowd. “So you’ve heard of the stinkin’ bloke, ’ave you?” He waved his enormous hand in front of his face as if to fumigate the atmosphere. “If ’e’s as well known as you say he is, and being a marquess and all, I’m willing to release him upon his own re-cogni-zance, providing ’e’s got somewhere to lodge in Bath. But if I catch you acting like the town drunkard again, your lordship, it’s the jailhouse for you. Now go home, Maude,” he told the incensed dairymaid, as though she had encouraged the marquess’s drunken advances.
Albert Tobias, Lord Manwaring, was in need of a fortifying pint or two before setting off to visit his sister in the Royal Crescent. By the time he reached her doorstep, he practically fell over his own gouty foot, cursing a stone riser for surprising him.
“Here you go, lass,” he burped, thrusting a fistful of colorful ribbons at a stunned Mary Sykes, who had opened the door to admit him. The gift to the young serving girl, who he decided at first glance was rather pretty, though
