Page 3

Chapter 3

Bridget twitched back the fabric of the heavy velvet stage curtains and peered surreptitiously out between the drapes into the theatre. The stalls were beginning to fill with ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finery, and the air buzzed with their chatter and a sense of anticipation. She was grateful that so many had come, despite the freezing January night. London’s upper classes were not without compassion after all.

Satisfied that she had not been spotted herself, she let the curtains fall back into place and turned to Frances Blythe beside her.

‘It is a marvellous turnout,’ she said, giving Frances a warm smile. ‘Thank you for all your efforts to bring this vital event to fruition.’

Frances rejected the compliment with a dismissive snort. ‘It is all thanks to you,’ she said, her mannish jaw set in a way that conveyed she would brook no argument on the matter. ‘You instigated the entire endeavour. I was merely your voice and your hands.’

‘We achieved it together,’ Bridget replied firmly. She, too, would stand her ground, for Frances had been indispensable these past months.

When she had initially conceived the idea of organising a charity event to aid the plight of the starving Irish people, Frances was the first person who had come to her mind. Their time spent working side by side at St Swithun’s Workhouse was so very long ago, and they’d had no communication since Bridget fled London with Cormac and Emily, but Bridget had written to St Swithun’s in the hope that her kind-hearted companion might still work there. Incredibly, she did. In fact, it was like Frances’s life had been frozen in time, for nothing substantial had changed – still unmarried, she continued to toil tirelessly to improve the lives of those fated to suffer within the walls of the unforgiving workhouse. In the space of a dozen years, Bridget had travelled to Boston, New York, England and Ireland, she had borne two more children, and she had lost her job as a seamstress and gained the wealth of a countess, all while Frances had doggedly plodded on in the same place every day, giving every moment of her life to serving others. Bridget felt utterly humbled by the magnitude of Frances’s selfless, unwavering humanity.

In further proof of this, the response Frances had sent to Bridget’s letter had been swift and wholehearted – she had readily accepted the role of overseeing the charity event and had even offered her own enthusiastic suggestions as to how it could all be managed. In return for her help, Bridget had promised to ensure that a portion of the proceeds would go to St Swithun’s too.

She could not have picked a better representative to act on her behalf. She had known from the outset that it would be essential to appoint someone else to be the name and face associated with this venture; her own direct involvement would have only resulted in unanswered letters and closed doors. She could not risk anyone discovering that she had a connection to the event, lest the donors withdraw their financial contributions in self-righteous disapproval. Hence, she now stayed concealed behind the stage curtains instead of mingling among the crowd to thank them for their attendance. She didn’t mind the lack of recognition; the most important thing was that the event would raise critical funds that could be sent to Ireland without delay.

Behind her and Frances, the actors were preparing themselves for their imminent performance, murmuring their lines or tracing their steps across the boards. Frances had negotiated with the theatre manager, Mr Puttenham, that three-quarters of the proceeds from the ticket sales would go to the charitable cause. According to Frances, he had only grudgingly agreed to this generous proportion after his aging grandmother, who had Irish heritage, had browbeat him into it.

Bridget espied him now, standing in the wings speaking with Cormac, whose hands were clasped behind his back in a stance of easy confidence. He, too, was an anonymous figure in these proceedings, his personal involvement stretching no further than arranging for the acquirement of the funds after the end of the performance. Mr Puttenham was not truly aware of who Bridget and Cormac were. Only the patrons currently seating themselves in the stalls would understand the significance of the names Lady Courcey and Mr McGovern, and Mr Puttenham had been instructed not to reveal these names publicly – Miss Frances Blythe was to be identified as the sole organiser.

Unable to resist, Bridget tweaked back the curtains again and peeked out at the audience who had no idea that they were supporting a cause spearheaded by a pair so notorious in their circle. A few rows from the front sat a lady with pursed lips and a rigid posture. Bridget recognised her as Lady Ainsley, the leader of the Ladies of Compassion Association which Bridget had joined back when she resided in London as Garrett’s wife. Judging by her sour expression, Bridget speculated that Lady Ainsley wished she had been the face of this acclaimed event rather than the drab Miss Blythe.

Bridget’s eye travelled further along the row and her breath caught as her gaze fell upon a familiar countenance dominated by a large nose: her old friend Lucy, Lady Newby. Lucy had been the one to help Bridget assimilate into London society when she first came to live there, and she had been a dear companion until Bridget had shattered their friendship by absconding from the city in a state of disrepute.

Bridget blinked and her breath caught again. Looking more closely at Lucy, she realised that her former friend was wearing a gown of dull black crape trimmed with a little grey. Lucy was in mourning. Who had died? Bridget glanced at the seats on either side of Lucy. She was accompanied by two young women – they had been only little girls when Bridget last saw them but they had to be Lucy’s grown-up daughters, Angela and Valerie, for they both sported distinctive noses just like their mother’s. However, there was no sign of Lucy’s husband, Lord Newby. Good gracious, surely not. But then, Lord Newby had been Lucy’s senior by fifteen years. The risks of old age and ill-health would both have been at closer proximity to him than his wife.

Moved by compassion, Bridget could not let the question remain unanswered. She dropped the curtains into place once more and turned back to Frances.

‘You have already done so much, but I must ask for your assistance yet again.’

She had barely outlined her request, though, before the theatre manager and Cormac approached them.

‘It is necessary to clear the stage now,’ Mr Puttenham said in a pompous tone. ‘The players are ready to begin.’ He squinted at Frances. ‘Do you still wish to address the audience before the commencement of the performance?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said, looking a little nervous at the prospect. She touched Bridget’s arm. ‘I must go, but come find me at the interval. I’ll do my best to help you then.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bridget. ‘I would be so grateful.’

Cormac tilted his head at this unexplained exchange but he didn’t question it as Mr Puttenham raised a meaningful eyebrow and he and Bridget were obliged to hurry from the stage into the wings. The actors also scurried off the stage, while Mr Puttenham and Frances waited expectantly in the centre where the velvet curtains met. As two members of the cast took up their positions close to where Bridget and Cormac stood, the curtains parted just enough to allow Mr Puttenham and Frances to slip through. Bridget sidled forwards, found the very end of the curtain where it hung inside the wings and tugged it back just a sliver to obtain a narrow view into the theatre. She could no longer see Lucy or Lady Ainsley from this angle, but she now had a better view of the boxes opposite her. Cormac stepped up behind her so that he could peer out above her head and she enjoyed the sensation of his body pressed close to her back.

She scanned the faces in the boxes and, with a jolt of surprise, found one she had not anticipated. Alone in the lowest tier closest to the stage, Garrett sat stiffly in his chair, exhibiting a notable lack of enthusiasm for his current situation. Bridget had advised Frances to issue an invitation to him out of courtesy, given that he had been the one to draw significant attention to the plight of the Irish at Parliament (an act which he had only undertaken on the condition that Cormac convince his recalcitrant son, Patrick, to finish his school studies), but she had not expected him to accept it. Perhaps he had realised that it would appear strange if he did not attend a charity event that was in aid of a cause he had so publicly advocated.

‘You see him?’ she mumbled over her shoulder.

‘I do,’ Cormac muttered back. ‘I wonder why Pat isn’t with him.’

‘Has he already returned to Eton?’

‘I don’t think so—as far as I’m aware, the Lent Half doesn’t commence until next week.’

There was no time to conjecture further because just then Mr Puttenham began to speak, his pompous voice booming out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to welcome you all here this evening. As you are aware, tonight’s performance has been designated in support of the wretched creatures in Ireland who are unable to help themselves. Your benevolence towards your inferior neighbours is deeply appreciated.’

Bridget ground her teeth. Mr Puttenham gave a supercilious bow and then took a grudging step back to let Frances address the audience. Thankfully, she spoke with greater compassion. Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, she described how the potato blight had swept mercilessly through the Irish countryside, obliterating the people’s main source of food and leaving them susceptible to severe hunger and disease.

‘More than two years of unimaginable torment have left them utterly without hope,’ she declared. ‘Through no fault of their own, they have been afflicted by the most horrific calamity. With nothing in the soil but rotten tubers, they have been reduced to skin and bones. They shiver in the throes of deadly fever, desperately wondering how they will pay for the coffins of the next ones to perish.’

A number of female gasps rippled through the theatre. It was so reminiscent of the day that Frances had spoken to the Ladies of Compassion Association about the atrocious conditions at St Swithun’s Workhouse that Bridget had to blink rapidly to recall herself to the present.

As relentless as ever, Frances carried on, ‘None of us can even begin to conceive of the desolation these men, women and children are experiencing. Their anguish is simply beyond our comprehension. But it is not beyond our capacity to ameliorate it, and that is why I’m truly glad to see so many of you in attendance this evening. Your financial contribution to this event is accepted with profound gratitude. My associates and I will ensure that it reaches those who are most in need.’

Frances’s hands were now clutched together so fervently that her knuckles had gone white. She unclasped them and stepped back with an awkward nod to indicate that her speech had come to an end, and the theatre manager darted forwards to take the limelight again. However, before he could open his mouth, another voice spoke up.

‘I should like to add a few words, if I may.’

Bridget’s gaze shot upwards to the box above the stage. Garrett had risen from his chair and was standing with his palms resting on the front of the box. His earlier stiff demeanour had been replaced by an air of composure. He looked out across the stalls, where a sea of faces were now upturned to him.

‘While I commend Miss Blythe for her zeal,’ he said evenly, ‘I feel compelled to highlight the fact that her efforts do not stem from a place of authenticity. She speaks only on the word of others for she has not witnessed any of these circumstances herself.’

Bridget gripped the velvet curtain in horror as Cormac sucked in a breath behind her. What on earth was Garrett doing? Did he mean to dismantle everything they had worked so hard to achieve?

His gaze swept coolly over his captive audience. ‘I, on the other hand, have been to Ireland this past year. I’ve beheld the conditions that pervade the country. And I can tell you that Miss Blythe has not done justice to the situation. This isn’t an oversight on her part—it’s merely that there are no words in our language to accurately describe how appalling it is.’

Bridget’s horror turned to bewilderment.

‘I can already surmise that the contributions gathered here tonight will not be sufficient, not by a considerable margin. Which is why I am pledging a further donation. I intend to match the total sum of the funds raised from the ticket sales and thus double the figure that will be sent to Ireland. I urge you to do the same.’

Complete silence greeted this astonishing announcement. Then, after several long moments, a female voice responded.

‘I shall make the same pledge,’ she said firmly.

Bridget wasn’t able to see the speaker but she recognised the voice – it was Lucy. In the wake of her declaration, a smattering of other voices concurred, and then several more, until the whole theatre was resounding with applause interspersed with cries of ‘I shall make the same pledge!’ Bridget couldn’t guess how many were merely caught up in the fervour of the moment and how many might actually make good on their promises, but she was certain that their charitable cause would wind up with more money at the end of the night than if Garrett had not spoken at all. She watched him as he took his seat again in the box – even at this distance, she could discern that his lip was curled. Was it an expression of disdain? Or perhaps discomfort?

Cormac leaned in close to her ear, speaking in a normal tone so that he could be heard above the applause. ‘What game is he playing?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘This is quite extraordinary.’

‘There must be something in it for him,’ Cormac muttered.

‘There very likely is, but we oughtn’t to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever his motive may be, I think we should welcome the benefits of it now and deal with its consequences later.’

Looking rather stunned, Frances and Mr Puttenham retreated through the gap in the curtains and left the stage, exiting into the wings opposite Bridget and Cormac. As the applause began to die down, Bridget overheard the two actors nearby grumbling to each other.

‘…demeans the nobility of our art to say that we perform it for those pathetic creatures across the sea.’

‘Indeed, such an embarrassment.’

‘I’ve heard it said that this blight is God teaching the Irish a lesson. We shouldn’t be interfering in his righteous plan.’

‘I have half a mind to refuse to go on stage. We are above such a humiliating endeavour.’

Next to Bridget, Cormac said to her in a raised voice, ‘You know, I believe that a notable critic from The Times is attending tonight’s performance. What an opportunity for the players to showcase their talents.’

The grumbling actors went suddenly mute, their faces alight with anticipation. Neither of them made a move to stalk from the wings in protest.

Bridget and Cormac exchanged looks of mingled amusement and glumness. With a resigned shrug, Cormac dismissed the bigotry they had just witnessed.

‘What help do you need from Frances at the interval?’ he asked as the actors cleared their throats noisily and shook out their limbs with exaggerated movements.

Bridget bit the tip of her tongue. ‘I caught a glimpse of Lucy in the audience. I would not venture to approach her, only for the fact that she is in mourning attire. Poor, dear Lucy. I don’t know who she has lost, but she was such a strength to me during my years in London that I should dearly like to offer my sympathies. You will probably say it is quite a risk but I’ve asked Frances to contrive a way for me to speak with her.’

‘It is a risk,’ Cormac agreed with a grimace, ‘but we’ll do our best to minimise it. I’m sure there’s a space backstage where you can meet her in private and not be observed by the rest of the audience. Let me go and search for one while they are all in their seats.’

Just then, a stagehand strode past them and started hauling on a rope to pull open the curtains from this side. All went quiet in the front of the theatre, so Bridget thanked Cormac silently with a squeeze of his arm and a kiss on his cheek. He slipped away through the wings and out a door at the back of the dim space, while the stagehand grunted and secured the rope in place. As he marched back past her, Bridget tucked herself discreetly next to a piece of scenery in order to watch the performance from the wings.

But her mind was already drifting away as the two nearby actors strutted out onto the stage, their sense of self-importance evident even beneath the veneer of their characters. What reason could there be behind Garrett’s very public and atypical display of philanthropy? Would Frances be able to convince Lucy to meet with her? And how would Lucy react if they came face to face?