Page 11

Chapter 10

Cormac sat next to the coachman, Clancy, at the front of the Walcott carriage as it trundled through the Dublin streets towards the Theatre Royal. The rays of the late July sun slanted between the buildings – sunset was still an hour or two away. He twisted Lord Bewley’s cane nervously between his palms, the grounds for his agitation twofold: he didn’t yet know what he would say to Henrietta that evening, and he felt greatly troubled about his nephew sitting behind him in the carriage.

Emily had come to him earlier and imparted what had taken place in the drawing room. None of the family had seen Patrick for hours after the incident, although the footman Simon had confirmed that he had requested a bottle of claret to be brought up to his bedchamber. It wasn’t until they were preparing to leave for the theatre that he had materialised, fully dressed and apparently sobered up, unless he was doing a remarkable job at concealing his inebriation. His steely expression had quelled any attempt to enquire after his wellbeing, and they had all headed down the steps to the waiting carriage in silence, leaving Jack to look after a guilt-ridden Gus, whose eyes were still red and puffy.

Until today, Cormac had not been sure whether Patrick had been aware of his illegitimacy. Now, he comprehended that he ought to have made a more concerted effort to ascertain this, rather than going on the assumption that Garrett would undertake the difficult conversation himself. What a blockhead the man had been to avoid the matter entirely – he should have realised that the truth would eventually come to light. Gus, of course, could not be reproached for his blunder. After speaking with Emily, Cormac had sought out his younger son and told him as much, but it had still taken a lot to convince the boy that he wasn’t to blame for the pain that Patrick was currently feeling.

And what would be the repercussions of that pain? Surely an afternoon spent drinking by himself was only the start. Could they expect to witness a full reversal of the progress he had been making, albeit by small degrees, to improve his character? Perhaps the knowledge of his baseborn status would remove all sense of inhibition and he would feel liberated to take his previous degeneracy to a new low. He and the Duchess of Northrop might well begin to flaunt their affair in public again, or maybe he would choose to pursue other women without discrimination. Would he frequent gambling houses and squander his inheritance? Cormac’s thoughts were chaotic as he imagined all the ways that his nephew could fall into a headlong decline from which it might not be possible to retrieve him.

He was so distracted that he didn’t notice the group of uniformed soldiers assembled in front of Carlisle Bridge until Clancy slowed the horses to a stop.

‘What’s this now?’ the coachman muttered. ‘It wasn’t here yesterday evening.’

Cormac gaped at the sight of a barricade set up at the entrance to the bridge, creating a narrow passage which controlled the flow of vehicles and pedestrians across it. A union flag flew from the top of the barricade. Two soldiers detached themselves from the group and came forwards; one raised his hand in a commanding gesture at Cormac and Clancy, even though their carriage had already come to a halt.

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked in an English accent and an unfriendly tone.

‘The Theatre Royal,’ Clancy responded. ‘Hawkins Street.’

Both soldiers narrowed their eyes, but then they took in the elegant cut of Cormac’s clothing and the noble crest emblazoned on the carriage’s door panels. The one who had spoken walked alongside the vehicle and threw a cursory glance in the window before he jerked his head back at the coachman and said, ‘Drive on.’

As they moved off again, Cormac gritted his teeth at the union flag rippling in the summer breeze; it represented the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and was a glaring reminder of the oppressive British rule that the Young Irelanders had tried and failed to overthrow. Still, the hasty erection of the barricade was a sign that the rebellion had scared the British into stationing soldiers around the city. Perhaps they were on the lookout for hidden weapons or for straggling rebels who had evaded arrest in Tipperary and were now on the run. Cormac made a silent wish that they would remain free and that their flame of revolution would continue to burn. Needless to say, he approved of their endeavours – had he never left Oakleigh at the age of nineteen, it was possible that he might have participated in the Young Ireland movement himself. However, his life had followed an unexpected path and his capacity to help his countrymen had taken on a different form. Whether or not Irish independence would be achieved in this generation, the first priority was to feed the starving people so that there would be a next generation.

When they reached the Theatre Royal, he wondered if the fate of that important cause was in jeopardy. The crowd that milled around the theatre’s entrance was noticeably smaller than the previous night’s and their din was more muted. The aristocratic patrons in this city were most likely to be wealthy Protestants loyal to the crown – had the reports of the rebellion in Tipperary made them reconsider their willingness to relieve the plight of the suffering Irish? Did they view it as a sign of ingratitude? At least a certain portion had still turned up, though he could not tell whether altruism or the allure of ‘Angelica’ had enticed them to attend. Was he being too pessimistic? Perhaps the Young Irelanders’ actions might not have quite as severe an effect here in Dublin, given its proximity to the crisis. However, it was very possible that news of the rebellion would cause charitable donations to dry up completely across the sea in England.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, sensing the undercurrent of tension in the air. ‘Stay vigilant this evening,’ he said to Clancy, who would drive further up the street to wait in a designated area until the end of the performance. Then he jumped down from the carriage to join Bridget, Emily, Rory and Patrick, who had just emerged from its interior.

Bridget turned her worried gaze towards him. ‘What happened at Carlisle Bridge?’

‘The British wanted to remind everyone who’s in charge,’ he said grimly. ‘Shall we?’

He offered her his arm and they proceeded towards the theatre’s entrance, followed by Emily on the arm of Rory, who was not looking very eager at the prospect of the night ahead, and Patrick, who brought up the rear, his shoulders hunched and his expression brooding.

The atmosphere in the lobby was not quite as merry as it had been the evening before, but it wasn’t until they entered the auditorium that Cormac caught a proper sense of the mood of tonight’s audience. While the wealthier patrons may have shown up in fewer numbers, the opposite was true for the lower classes. The pit and the upper gallery were absolutely packed, with still more streaming in from the side entrance. They squeezed close together on the benches and some even remained standing when they ran out of space. This time, there was no laughter; they buzzed with angry murmurs, punctuated now and then by more heated exclamations. Among them, from somewhere inside the pit, Cormac heard one voice burst out in Irish, ‘ Saoirse do mhuintir na héireann !’

‘Freedom for the people of Ireland’: that was what preyed upon their minds, not the programme of entertainment ahead.

Warily, he led the way up the aisle to the front row where the same five seats had been left vacant for them again. As they sat down, he pictured Henrietta standing in the wings waiting to perform and wondered whether her angelic voice would be enough to soothe the restless crowd.

Next to him, Patrick grimaced. ‘This place is like a powder keg,’ he said, uttering his first words all evening. ‘One spark is all it would take to ignite it.’

Surprised that his nephew had heeded what was happening outside of his own inner turmoil, Cormac nodded gravely. ‘I didn’t anticipate this level of tension.’

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for the ladies to stay,’ Patrick said frankly.

Even as he spoke, several men in the pit started pounding their fists into their palms, resentment contorting their faces.

‘I agree,’ Cormac said, alarm rising within him. ‘Let’s escort them back out at once.’

Before they could make a move, however, Mr Dunhill emerged through the curtains on the stage. His top hat was still perched at a jaunty angle on his head, but his customarily rosy cheeks were pale and his smile seemed forced as he looked out over the agitated audience. Just as he had done the previous evening, he gestured to the conductor below him and the orchestra began to play. The majestic melody of ‘God Save the Queen’ swelled throughout the theatre.

Cormac wanted to groan. He supposed the playing of the tune was a tradition, or perhaps even an obligation, but could Mr Dunhill not have chosen to forgo it for one night? The jeers erupted immediately from the pit and the upper gallery in a cacophony of defiant boos and hisses. The conductor urged his musicians to play more loudly but that only incensed the audience further; they pounded their feet upon the floor in thunderous disapproval, trying to drown the music out. Mr Dunhill’s frozen smile slipped from his face and he waved frantically down at the conductor. The orchestra cut off ‘God Save the Queen’ with a screech of bows against strings.

In the next instant, they struck up ‘St Patrick’s Day’ and Mr Dunhill beamed, clearly convinced that this would appease his audience. The response was indeed raucous. Those sitting down leapt to their feet, stamping and cheering, and voices rose all around in a deafening roar. Shouts of ‘Free Ireland!’ and ‘Get the English out!’ peppered the clamour. Cormac’s heart hammered as the commotion climbed towards its breaking point. The powder keg was ready to catch fire.

And then the spark occurred. From somewhere high above, a glass bottle was hurled down onto the stage. It narrowly missed Mr Dunhill and smashed into smithereens on the boards, sending chips of glass into the crowd in the pit. Bodies surged backwards, and there were bellows of fright and rage.

And after that came chaos.

The music stuttered to a halt as the throng heaved and pushed against each other, their limbs flailing and knocking over benches. Screams rang out from the stalls behind. Cormac sprang up from his seat, his only thought now to protect his family.

‘It’s time to get out of here,’ he told them urgently.

He tucked Lord Bewley’s cane under his arm and pulled Bridget to her feet. Patrick, Rory and Emily all stood hurriedly as well; Emily’s blue eyes were wide with fear but Rory wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. Other patrons in the stalls were also rising from their seats in panic and flooding into the aisles.

‘We’ll head straight for the lobby and all the way out to the street,’ Cormac ordered. ‘Don’t stop until you’re outside. Pat, please lead the way.’

Patrick looked startled, but then his gaze cleared as he grasped the situation – Cormac and Rory both had a lady to shield, whereas he was free to forge a path through the crush of people. He nodded and strode ahead to the end of the front row. As the rest of them followed, Cormac glanced up at the stage and spotted a horrified Mr Dunhill scurrying for safety back through the gap in the curtains.

The aisle was teeming with gentlemen shepherding ladies away from the mayhem as quickly as possible. Patrick pushed forwards, finding gaps wherever he could. Cormac held Bridget securely at his side as he shadowed his nephew, while Rory and Emily were so close behind that Emily’s skirts pressed against the backs of Cormac’s legs. The dense mass of bodies made the air stifling and difficult to breathe.

Not all of the wealthy attendees were averse to the unfolding chaos. A group of three young gentlemen had clambered onto the plush red seats in the centre of the stalls and were waving their cravats in the air, yelling, ‘Give them hell!’

Objects rained down from the upper gallery, mostly harmless things like hats and handbills, with the exception of another glass bottle which plummeted downwards and shattered against a pillar. A shard flew into the face of a nearby man and cut his cheek; he emitted a snarl of pain and irrationally hit out at the closest person to him, a beefy fellow who whirled and punched him so hard that he fell back against the pillar. The people were losing all reason in the pandemonium.

Just before they made it through the ornate lobby doors, Cormac looked over his shoulder to snatch a final glimpse of the bedlam – men were climbing up onto the stage and shouting rallying cries down at the crowd. Then he and the others spilled out into the lobby where there was a little more space and it became easier to breathe.

‘Keep going,’ he said to Patrick and his nephew continued to lead the way, snaking between the milling, panicked patrons until they reached the theatre’s entrance and finally emerged out onto the street. Cormac urged them to walk another thirty yards along the footpath before they stopped. Dusk had not yet fallen and the bright, calm outdoors seemed poles apart from the chaos inside the heaving theatre.

Bridget was shaking like a leaf in his grasp. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms and said, ‘You’re safe now.’

‘It all happened so fast,’ she said faintly.

Emily clung to Rory, her features pallid. ‘Was this a reaction to the failed rebellion?’

‘For the most part, we can assume,’ Cormac replied. ‘But that rancour towards the English is always simmering under Irish skin—it doesn’t take much for it to break through to the surface. What occurred in Tipperary was a missed opportunity, though, and who knows when the next one will come along?’ Despite his yearning for such a scenario, he couldn’t think about future uprisings at this moment. Sweat soaked his clothes and his pulse thrummed in his ears; while his family were now safe, his anxiety had not yet abated. He focused his gaze on Patrick and Rory. ‘Take Bridget and Emily further up the street—Clancy will be waiting there with the carriage.’

Alarm filled Bridget’s expression. ‘Why aren’t you coming with us?’

‘I have to go back for Henrietta,’ he said.

She opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it. It wouldn’t do any good, and he could tell she knew it.

‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised without her having to ask.

‘You’d better be,’ she replied.

He produced Lord Bewley’s cane from under his arm. ‘I’ve got a weapon if I need it,’ he said, only half in jest. The slender shaft of wood was not especially intimidating, but it would do in a pinch.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Patrick declared. ‘Rory can bring the ladies to the carriage—that doesn’t need two of us.’

Cormac thought of the enraged men who had climbed onto the stage and decided that Henrietta didn’t have time for him to argue with his nephew.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

He gave Rory a meaningful nod that conveyed the trust he was placing in him to guard the two most important women in his life. Then, with an encouraging smile at Emily and a brush of his fingers against Bridget’s right hip, he spun on his heel to stride back to the theatre’s entrance, Patrick at his side.

They found the lobby seething with bewildered patrons trying to distance themselves from the bedlam inside the auditorium, the racket of which carried through the open ornate doors. Cormac perceived the Hyland twins amid the throng; they were both hanging on to a gentleman who had his arms enveloped protectively around them. Seeing that they were out of harm’s way, he charged onwards in his mission to save Henrietta.

This time, he went first and Patrick followed, darting in and out among the crowd until they reached the inconspicuous door that led backstage. The burly theatre attendant was nowhere in sight; either he had joined the fracas, or fled from it. Shoving the door open, Cormac barrelled along the corridor beyond and up the steps two at a time, Patrick striving to keep up behind him. The sounds of the riot were more muffled here. They made directly for Henrietta’s dressing room and, finding her door ajar, dashed inside.

The room was empty. Cormac deflated; he had hoped she would seek safety here. Was she still in the wings? He supposed there was a possibility that she had already escaped from the building – the performers and stagehands probably had their own entrance which would not be overwhelmed by masses of people. However, he couldn’t abandon his search on that assumption; he would have to make certain that she was safe.

‘Let’s carry on,’ he said to Patrick, who backed out of the dressing room. As Cormac was about to leave himself, he glanced down at the rumpled blankets on the cot and glimpsed an object poking out from the folds of material: a small wooden limb with a lace cuff. He bent and twitched back the blanket to reveal a head with painted black hair and a sombre expression. He stared at it, astonished.

‘Uncle?’ came Patrick’s voice from the corridor.

‘I’m coming,’ Cormac replied hastily and folded the blanket over the doll again before rejoining his nephew.

Together, they passed Mr Dunhill’s vacant office and hurried deeper into the labyrinth of corridors. A pair of tearful ballerinas came scurrying around a corner, shrieked at the sight of them and scuttled away down a different corridor – the frightened girls couldn’t know that Cormac and Patrick posed no threat to them.

By instinct or luck, they managed to navigate their way swiftly to the back of the stage. They slipped through a door into the wings, finding themselves in a dusty, dimly lit space cluttered with theatrical paraphernalia. The noise from the audience grew instantly louder, an inarticulate roar of hot-blooded hostility. Cormac edged forwards to gain a narrow view of the stage and saw that some of the rioters were attacking the velvet curtains in a frenzy. At first, he couldn’t tell how they were tearing the heavy material, but then he discerned the lengths of splintered wood in their grips – they must have smashed up the benches in the pit. The jagged edges ripped at the fabric, and the rioters cheered and tossed the tattered fragments into the crowd below. They appeared to have lost all sight of the original motive for their anger; now they were just a mindless mob intent on random destruction.

Sidling further into the wing past a table stacked haphazardly with scripts, Cormac squinted through the gloom and distinguished Mr Dunhill hunkered down behind a piece of painted scenery, his eyes as round as his face as he peered out from his hiding place.

‘Mr McGovern!’ he croaked. ‘Good heavens, what prompted you to come up here?’

‘Where’s Henrietta?’ Cormac demanded. At Mr Dunhill’s confused frown, he said, ‘Angelica! Where is she?’

The theatre manager pointed a shaky finger across the stage into the opposite wing and Cormac discerned the tips of white feathers poking up from behind a rack of props.

‘Stay here,’ he said to Mr Dunhill. ‘But be ready to move quickly.’

He beckoned to Patrick with a twitch of his head. They retreated to the back of the wing and hastened along the passage behind the stage’s backdrop, keeping themselves concealed from the men shredding the curtains. Upon reaching the other side, they found Henrietta alone, crouching in the shadow of the props rack, her pale face in profile as her gaze darted frantically around the chaotic scene. When Cormac approached her side, she jumped and gave a screech of fear, rearing back from him.

‘It’s all right, it’s me,’ he said, putting up his free hand in a placating gesture.

She sagged with relief and, even in the midst of all the havoc, it gladdened his heart to see that reaction – she did not wholly detest him then. He dropped his hand and offered it to her, intending to lead her back through the passage unnoticed, but one of the rioters must have heard her scream for he suddenly whirled in their direction.

‘Oi!’ he said and started to advance on them menacingly, brandishing the length of wood in his fist. Cormac stepped forwards with the cane raised, shielding both Henrietta and Patrick.

‘Stay back!’ he barked at the man, his voice cutting through the din and catching the attention of the other men on the stage, whose heads swivelled towards him too.

The first rioter sneered and, without warning, hurled his piece of broken wood at Cormac. It whistled past his shoulder and clattered against the props rack. Henrietta gasped and ducked down low behind it. Cormac’s own wrath mounted, along with alarm, as he realised that these men were beyond reasoning with. He had to get Henrietta out of there as fast as he could.

‘Here, catch!’ he exclaimed to Patrick and tossed Lord Bewley’s cane to his nephew, who fumbled but managed to secure his grasp on it. Then Cormac strode to Henrietta, bent and swept her up into his arms, crushing her wings in the process. Her light frame trembled against him. That was when the rioters caught sight of her.

‘Angelica! It’s Angelica!’ they cried, their expressions morphing from anger to a fierce, almost fanatical ardour.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ Patrick yelled, pointing the cane at them as if it were a sword.

A young fellow with a wild glint in his eyes did the same with his own stick and bawled, ‘We’ll save you from these wicked men, Angelica, don’t you worry!’

Cormac tightened his hold on Henrietta and eyed the opposite wing where Mr Dunhill was peeping out in terror. If they could get backstage again, perhaps the theatre manager would have a key to a room where they could lock themselves in until the danger had passed.

‘We need to cross over the stage,’ he muttered to Patrick. There was no advantage in trying to retreat via the passage behind the backdrop – it was a slower route to the exit and the time for concealment was past. The rioters crowded nearer, their vandalism of the curtains forgotten. Beyond them, through the ragged gap in the curtains, the riot in the auditorium raged on.

‘Get ready to run,’ Patrick replied, his jaw set with determination.

He stooped to snatch up the piece of wood that the first rioter had thrown and whacked it against the rack of props, knocking it over. An array of goblets, masks, crowns and lanterns tumbled down between them and the rioters, scattering across the boards and buying them precious seconds. They hurtled away across the stage and joined Mr Dunhill in the other wing, before dashing towards the door they had entered through only minutes earlier. Mr Dunhill thrust it open, Cormac followed with Henrietta’s arms wrapped around his neck, and Patrick came last, still wielding the cane and the piece of wood. The sound of the bedlam in the theatre once again dimmed as the door banged shut behind them.

In an act of quick thinking, Patrick knelt and wedged the piece of wood under the door, just as the pursuing rioters started to beat their fists upon it. The wedge held in place and frustrated shouts rose from the other side of the door. Breathing heavily, Cormac gave Patrick a nod of approval. Henrietta clung to him like a limpet; he could feel her heart thumping against his chest.

‘Is there a safe place to hide?’ he asked Mr Dunhill. ‘Or a way to exit the building without detection?’ At a push, they could go back through the lobby, but there was no telling if the rioters had spilled out beyond the auditorium by now.

Mr Dunhill seemed quite unsteady on his legs and it took a moment for Cormac’s question to register. ‘Y-yes,’ he said at last. ‘The stagehands have their own access to the theatre. Follow me.’

He stumbled down the corridor and they went after him, leaving behind the noisy pounding on the door. Cormac continued to carry Henrietta; her face was so white that he feared she might faint.

Their route through the warren of corridors eventually brought them down a stairs to an exit at the very back of the theatre. They emerged into an alleyway where several others were milling around – Cormac recognised the trio of woodwind players, all clutching their instruments protectively, as well as the burly theatre attendant, who seemed to have shrunk in on himself as he slumped on an overturned box. Twilight was setting in by this stage; in the weakening light, it was harder to read Henrietta’s expression, but Cormac thought she looked embarrassed.

‘I can stand now,’ she said, her voice brittle.

He set her down on her feet. Her crushed wings drooped from her back. Nearby, Patrick was panting slightly as he leaned on Lord Bewley’s cane. Mr Dunhill stared up at the building with his palms pressed to his temples.

‘My beautiful theatre,’ he moaned. Cormac imagined that the theatre’s actual owner might have something to say about this sense of possession, but in reality Mr Dunhill, as the manager, had the deeper connection to it for he lived and breathed there every day. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Those thugs have ruined it.’

‘Will it have to close?’ Henrietta asked in alarm.

‘For a while, at least,’ Mr Dunhill said miserably. ‘It’s going to take time to repair all the damage. The cost of it all! What’s more, the damage to its reputation will take even longer to repair. Ticket sales will certainly be down upon reopening, after word spreads about what’s happened.’

Henrietta gulped. ‘But I’ll still be able to stay here in the meantime, won’t I?’

‘I’m afraid that’ll be impossible, my angel. The performers will all need to leave until it’s safe to come back.’

Cormac couldn’t have been gifted a more perfect opportunity. ‘You can stay with us,’ he said to Henrietta. ‘Until the theatre reopens, or for as long as you like. We’re planning to travel down to Carlow soon.’

Her features were indistinct in the gathering darkness. She said nothing. Was she contemplating his offer? He waited with bated breath.

But then Mr Dunhill said, ‘Or you could come with me, my angel. My family and I live on Frederick Street, which is but a short walk from here. I know that my wife and daughters would gladly welcome you into our home. You would feel comfortable there in no time for we are a tight-knit family.’

The wilted feathers on Henrietta’s back rustled as she bobbed an uncharacteristic curtsey at Mr Dunhill. ‘Thank you, sir, I’m very grateful.’

Cormac endeavoured to conceal his disappointment as he said, ‘Are you certain? We’d be more than happy to—’

‘I’m certain,’ she interrupted. ‘I want to stay near the theatre. This is where I belong and I’d like to get back here as soon as possible.’

‘My girls will be delighted,’ Mr Dunhill said. ‘They’re of a similar age, so you will get along very well, I think.’

Cormac grimaced, resigned. ‘Do you remember what I begged of you last night?’ he said to Mr Dunhill.

‘I do, indeed. And I remember what I swore in return.’

Cormac certainly hoped so because Henrietta’s happiness was wholly in this man’s power.

‘Will you write to us?’ he asked her. ‘Let us know how you are?’

‘I’m no good at writing,’ she mumbled.

‘May we write to you at least?’

She shrugged. ‘Fine.’ She turned to Mr Dunhill. ‘Can I go back to my dressing room before we leave? I have…things I want to bring with me.’

An image entered Cormac’s mind of a wooden limb with a lace cuff as Mr Dunhill said, ‘No, no, that’s out of the question while those vandals are still inside. We must wait for the constabulary to put them to rout. You can borrow clothing from my Joanie for the time being—she’s about your size.’

As Henrietta’s shoulders sagged in acquiescence, Patrick straightened up. ‘What now, Uncle?’ he asked, his voice steady despite the chaos they had just escaped.

Cormac glanced at Henrietta, who lowered her head. ‘We’ll return to the carriage,’ he replied to his nephew. ‘Mr Dunhill, please accept my best wishes that your theatre will be able to reopen as soon as possible. Be safe, Hen—Angelica.’

Instead of giving her another chance to avoid his gaze or otherwise reject him, he pivoted swiftly and made for the end of the alleyway. Patrick caught up and wordlessly passed Lord Bewley’s cane to him. Cormac gripped the beechwood shaft, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder.

He prayed that, for once, he had left Henrietta in safe hands. Perhaps, in the care of the Dunhill family, she would finally find the refuge she needed.