Love Plays a Part (17 page)

“You look real nice,” said Hester with quiet satisfaction. “I just wish -”

Whatever her wish, it was cut off by Jake calling, “Mr. Pomroy’s carriage is here and he’s a-waiting.”

Samantha could not help smiling as she gathered up her things. Certainly Jake’s approach to serving was a unique one.

Mr. Pomroy, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, did not seem at all perturbed at Jake’s form of announcing him. Indeed, he was chatting quite amiably with his former servant. As she drew closer, Samantha realized that they were discussing the play.

“I ain’t seen Kemble do Hamlet this season,” said Jake. “Ever time they does a different play, I got to be there to keep Lord Byron’s seat in the pit.”

Samantha thought perhaps Mr. Pomroy would think this a Banbury tale, but he merely nodded. “I’ve heard that he prefers the pit.” Then he saw Samantha and beamed in approval. “There you are, Miss Everett. I’ve procured us a prime box. You look quite nice this evening. A new gown?”

Samantha nodded and was amused by the quick exchange of looks between Mr. Pomroy and his former servant. Everyone, it seemed, was conspiring to get her into new gowns.

“Thank you, Mr. Pomroy,” she said sweetly. “I’m greatly indebted to you for this evening.”

The little solicitor shook his head. “No, no, the debt is mine. Mrs. Pomroy, bless her dear heart, has no use for the theatre. Part of the pleasure is the discussion that accompanies the play.”

“Well, I am not exactly an expert,” disclaimed Samantha, “but I do enjoy talking theatre. I’m very interested in seeing Kemble’s Hamlet.”

“Ain’t near as good as Kean’s,” said Jake.

“That,” said Samantha, “is what I’ve been told. Now I intend to see for myself.” She took the cloak that Hester offered her and put it around her shoulders. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Of course.” Mr. Pomroy led her out to his carriage, quite a nice carriage, she thought in passing. Mrs. Pomroy must enjoy riding about in it.

“I expect we shall be there in time for the first act,” said Mr. Pomroy somewhat apologetically as they settled on the cushions. “I know that’s not fashionable. But then, I’ve never set up to be part of the
ton.”

“I do not understand the fashionable world at all,” replied Samantha, the dark handsome face of Roxbury rising in her mind. “They seem to have no reason to their lives. Except perhaps” - she hesitated, suddenly realizing that Mr. Pomroy was, after all, male -”pleasure.”

His round little face turned rosy, but he nodded. “My clients speak often of suffering from ennui,” he said. “That is probably one reason so many of them frequent White’s. There, at least, they experience some excitement.”

Samantha shook her head. “From what I’ve seen, such a life would not agree with me.”

Mr. Pomroy smiled. “Not all the aristocracy lead such lives. Many men manage their own estates - a time-consuming operation, you can be sure.”

Samantha nodded.

“These men,” continued Mr. Pomroy, “are usually more responsible about their substance. Often, too, they become concerned in the affairs of their workers, those who till their fields and work in their great houses.”

Samantha found this much more palatable. “That is more like my papa. When he died, he left all his old servants pensions.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Pomroy. “It was I who arranged them.”

“Of course.”

The carriage pulled to a halt outside Covent Garden, and Mr. Pomroy descended and offered Samantha his gloved hand. For the first time she noticed his black breeches and stockings, his dark coat and
chapeau bras.
Essentially he wore the same kind of clothes as the earl. But while on Roxbury these clothes looked normal, as though this were his inherent mode of dress, on Mr. Pomroy they verged almost on the ridiculous, as though he had accidentally donned someone else’s garments.

Then Samantha’s feet reached the pavement, and she ceased to think of clothes. The crush of people was not particularly great, not like it had been outside Drury Lane when they went to see Kean. Yet it appeared that there would be sufficient audience to make Kemble’s performance a satisfactory one for the management.

Some moments later Mr. Pomroy was leading her through a mahogany door and into a box. “This is quite grand,” she said.

Mr. Pomroy beamed. “It is one of my few extravagances. Mrs. Pomroy being averse to the stage as she is, I usually have to come alone.”

Samantha continued to look around her. The prevailing background color of the auditorium seemed to be pink, and the usual gilding and elaborate chandeliers gave it an appearance of great richness and luxury. She sighed happily and turned to her companion. “Thank you again, Mr. Pomroy. This is a rare treat for me.” She smiled. “Often at Drury Lane I forget that there is any audience at all. I begin to think that the performance is for me alone.”

“I have often wished to be allowed backstage,” said Mr. Pomroy earnestly. “But alas, I am not a member of the
ton,
and I haven’t sufficient money to make myself acceptable otherwise.”

Samantha considered this. “Really, Mr. Pomroy, I see no reason why you shouldn’t come back to the greenroom some time. Of course, you must not let on how you know me. I’m sure Mr. Kean would speak to you. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh, Miss Everett! Are you sure? I mean, I should greatly enjoy that. But - but I should not like to intrude.” Mr. Pomroy’s face shone with eagerness.

“Mr. Pomroy, you are too self-effacing. After all, you are a man of substance in your field. You have as much right in the greenroom as anyone. Please, I insist on it.” She smiled at him sweetly. “You have been such a help to me. Let me do this little thing for you. Kean is playing Shylock on Saturday. Say that’ll you’ll come to the greenroom at intermission. I shall tell him you are coming.”

“Oh, Miss Everett. No mortal man could resist such an offer,” said Mr. Pomroy with such enthusiasm that several people in adjoining boxes looked curiously in their direction. Samantha, however, did not notice. She was too enthralled with everything around her.

Experiencing the theatre in this way seemed very different to her. That first night at Drury Lane she had been far too excited to notice very much. Now, with eyes aglow, she looked all around. The boxes were full of elegantly dressed gentlemen; their tall starched cravats threatened their ears, and they stared out over the crowd with a gaze of elegant boredom. Finely dressed ladies, ablaze with jewels, whispered to their neighbors or surveyed the pit below. Down there fashionable bucks paraded up and down, displaying their finery and their figures. Samantha suppressed a smile at the antics of several young bucks who preened themselves and eyed each other exactly as the roosters had in the barnyard at Dover. Orange girls hurried here and there with their wares, and a general hum of noise rose from below. Samantha settled happily into her seat. This would be an evening she would long remember.

Then the curtain rose, and the noise leveled off. Samantha, her eyes glued to the stage, waited for her first glimpse of the great John Philip Kemble. The man who came forward was dressed in a suit of black, but Samantha immediately registered the fact that he also wore some chains of gold and something else that she took to be the order Roxbury had spoken of. For a moment she felt such a pang of longing for his company that she was quite startled by it, but she dismissed it quickly. She could not always have the earl by to make comments. It was time she used her own critical judgment.

Kemble was obviously taller in stature than Kean. Even at this distance she could see that. Momentarily Samantha congratulated herself on acquiring her job at Drury Lane. From there she had a much better view. No wonder Byron and his friends preferred the pit. From this distance it would be difficult to make out the fine nuances of expression that Kean’s face registered so well.

Kemble, she saw, had a noble Roman nose and a look of great dignity. At this distance the fact that he was a man well into his prime was not so noticeable, and Samantha did not give it much consideration. She had told herself repeatedly that she must keep an open mind about this performance, that she must not let her having seen Kean first in the part blind her to whatever beauties Kemble might impart to it. But immediately he began his soliloquy she found her resolve weakening. His performance was so different from Kean’s. So much - she sought for a word - so much
stiffer.
Inadvertently she remembered an old line from one of the reviews she and her father had read and reread; perhaps it had even been about Kemble. She could not remember. At any rate, it seemed to apply to this performance. The line read: “He played the part like a man in armour, with neither variableness nor shadow of turning.”

Well, thought Samantha as the curtain fell for intermission, it was clear to her that Kean was by far the better actor and the School of Nature far to be preferred to that of Art.

She spent the intermission silently gazing around her and considering what she had seen. Mr. Pomroy seemed similarly lost in his own reflections and did not offer to open any conversation with her. Very soon the curtain rose again.

With every word he spoke, Samantha discovered   fresh flaws in Kemble’s interpretation. When the afterpiece began, she could not in reality say that she had enjoyed herself. She had, she felt, seen for herself that the earl was correct in his critical comments. That was one thing, beside his dark good looks, that he could be admired for. And of course he really could not be credited for his looks.

The afterpiece passed before her without engaging much of her attention, and Mr. Pomroy gazed at her rather quizzically when it had ended. “And how did you enjoy the great John Philip Kemble?” he asked as they rose and began to make their way toward the stairs.

“I found the performance inferior to Kean’s,” she said. “But I am very grateful to you for the chance to see him. It is always better to see for one’s self.”

A little frown puckered Mr. Pomroy’s forehead. “He is certainly of a different school of acting. But tell me, could you not discover any beauties in this portrayal? Did you not see in Kemble the scholar’s eye, the soldier’s spirit? Was there not in his presentation a retrospective air, an intensity and abstraction?”

Samantha considered this all the way down the stairs and out to the carriage. Finally, after she was settled on the seat, she spoke. “I really would like to see the beauties you speak of,” she said. “But I cannot say that I do. I believe that Kemble is undoubtedly a great actor - of the old school - that unaffected Hamlet that is Kean’s that I cannot appreciate acting that depends on the artifices of conventionality.”

“But convention is convention precisely because it is old and established. Kean seems to ignore it. He introduces his own points of business, points which no one has ever used before.”

“But,” Samantha said, “didn’t someone once originate each of what are now conventions? Most of them are not actually written into the plays. They must have originated
with
someone.”

In the light of the carriage lamps she could see Mr. Pomroy’s round face pucker in concentration. “Perhaps so. But still, a man must respect the rules - what has gone before. We build, after all, on the past.”

“But genius,” cried Samantha. “Genius has the right to ignore the rules, to go beyond them. Surely you can see that?”

Mr. Pomroy’s nod was slow in coming. “I suppose so. But I must really say that I enjoy each portrayal. Each actor brings out different facets of the Dane’s character. I can appreciate them both.”

Samantha smiled. “You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Pomroy. I suspect you get the most out of everything.”

“Thank you, Miss Everett. I find that it pays to keep an open mind.” The carriage drew to a halt. “And here we are at your door already. It is certainly convenient to live so close to the theatre.” He sighed. “But Mrs. Pomroy would never permit it. She must live out in the fashionable suburbs.”

He opened the door and climbed out, then turned to assist her. “I must thank you again for your company,” he said politely. “I much enjoyed our conversation. And if you have not changed your mind about it, I should very much like to come to the greenroom night after next and meet the great Kean.”

Samantha nodded. “Of course I have not changed my mind.” The smile turned to a grin. “But please do not tell Mr. Kean how much you enjoy Kemble’s Hamlet!”

Mr. Pomroy chuckled nervously. “Of course not. I am a man of the world, Miss Everett, a man of business. I know very well when to keep my tongue between my teeth.”

Samantha returned a smile. “I’m sure you do. Thank you again, Mr. Pomroy.” She turned and made her way to the door, where Jake waited, and the solicitor returned to the carriage that would take him home to his wife. Someday soon, thought Samantha as she climbed the stairs and was readied for bed, she would have to meet Mrs. Pomroy, to see if that legendary spouse fit the picture her mind had drawn of her.

Chapter 10

The next two days passed quickly, and Samantha, back in her old routine, gave little thought to the gown of coral silk or the extravagant luxury of Covent Garden’s interior. She did think rather often of Kemble’s portrayal of Hamlet and contrast it to Kean’s. She even gave quite a bit of consideration to Mr. Pomroy’s suggestion that she might find beauties in both interpretations, but try as she might she could not feel that Kemble’s portrayal was as good as Kean’s.

On Saturday, as she hurried about her chores, she thought often of Mr. Pomroy and wondered if he would take up her invitation to come to the greenroom. She had taken time to apprise Kean of this possibility, and he had smiled impishly and said, “I promise to be nice to your nervous friend, Samantha. At least he’s not a lord.”

She smiled now at the memory and hurried on to the work room. Maria had been kind enough to have someone take her place on Thursday night, and she did not want to fall behind in her work. She speeded her steps, anticipation at the prospect of seeing Kean’s Shylock giving her added energy. As she entered the work room, she almost collided with Lily Porter, who was coming out. The lovely face was marred by a look of complete hatred and rage. Samantha drew in a sharp breath at the sight of it. Never had anyone looked at her with such terrible animosity. Then Lily was gone.