Finally, the baby stopped shaking and lay still, her breathing shallow. Sophie lifted her from the tub and wrapped her in a blanket, but the child’s eyes remained closed. She silently carried the small bundle past Mrs. Phillips’ customers, and slowly ascended the stairs to her own lodgings.
The infant’s fever persisted for another day while Sophie held her gently in her arms, sitting waxlike in front of the low burning hearth. She spoke and sang to Danielle constantly, despite the babe’s apparent unconsciousness. At length, as dawn broke on the second day, Sophie suddenly realized that her daughter had simply stopped breathing.
***
Later that morning, Mary Ann, who had disappeared soon after the infant had died, returned with an undertaker carrying a small coffin into the chamber.
“’Tis arranged by Darnly,” Mary Ann said, pointing at the casket. “I told him what happened and he’s seen to the little one’s burial…”
Sophie stared at the diminutive wooden box and nodded vacantly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, silently forgiving Mary Ann her role in the tragedy, while castigating herself more severely than ever for having left her child in the care of a prostitute and a drunkard. “That was kind of you to seek him out—”
“I was happy to be of service,” a voice said from the threshold as Roderick Darnly strode into the chamber, his coachman, Charles, following in his wake.
Sophie stared, dumbfounded at the Earl of Llewelyn’s son who had never come nearer her lodgings than the elegant confines of his coach waiting downstairs at her door. He strode over to the bed where Danielle lay swaddled in a blanket, her tiny face now tinged gray in the stillness of death. In a low voice he gave instructions to the undertaker, who placed the infant in the coffin that would hold her tiny remains for eternity. Sophie quickly looked away as the lid closed shut. The sound of the wood being nailed was a stark reminder of the finality of her daughter’s passing. Then, Darnly’s minions bore the casket downstairs.
“I will see to the internment,” Roderick told her calmly, referring to the common practice of the day which dictated that mothers did not attend their children’s funerals for fear of disgracing the assembled mourners with an unseemly emotional display.
Sophie’s skin was pale from lack of sleep and her grief did not allow for tears.
“I cannot be spared, whether I attend services for Danielle or not,” she replied, dry-eyed. “I shall bury my child.”
When the mourners arrived at St. Paul’s, a small plot had been excavated in the hard earth in the corner of the churchyard. Patches of pale blue sky shone through the slate gray clouds overhead. The snow from the March storm a week earlier had disappeared entirely, leaving the earth soft and muddy—a boon only for the grave-diggers, Sophie thought forlornly.
She felt Lorna seize her hand and squeeze it as the rector intoned a brief service. Roderick Darnly, Mary Ann, and Mrs. Phillips stood silently by during the few minutes it took the churchman to lay to rest a child barely two months old.
Soon the weather turned cold again and for the remainder of March, London was buffeted by a return of rain and sleet. Sophie lay in bed late into each day, refusing to rise even when Mary Ann returned at dawn from the Blue Periwig. Most days the harlot was laden with food and provisions supplied at the behest of Roderick Darnly, although Sophie barely noticed and ate very little,
Lorna shouldered most of the responsibilities for running Ashby’s Books and fulfilling the printing orders Garrick continued to commission. Boswell had departed for Scotland, writing her a brief condolence note that she did not have the curiosity to read until mid-April.
From Hunter, she heard nothing.
***
For two months, Sophie could not bear to take up her quill or even peruse the first act of
The Bogus Baronet.
Books and plays and even writing itself had come to symbolize the series of tragedies that had befallen her.
I am alone,
her heart cried into the night.
I am utterly alone.
In the absolute stillness of dawn in Half Moon Passage, nothing contradicted that assertion, nor soothed the injury to her soul.
One day in early May, Lorna brought an ultimatum along with Sophie’s morning tea.
“You must do something to rouse yourself from this blackness of spirit,” her friend announced decisively. “Ashby’s is foundering without your attention and Mary Ann announced yesterday she has found herself a new protector. Her subsidy from Darnly is due to terminate in a month when she moves in with some wool merchant.” She marched over to Sophie’s writing table and pointed at the thin pile of sheets gathering dust. “I suggest you tackle your play and finish it. ’Tis a capital time to submit it to Garrick for next season.”
“What I’ve written thus far is rubbish,” Sophie retorted peevishly, staring vacantly out the window.
“Rubbish or not, you’ve
got
to work on it!” Lorna said firmly. When Sophie didn’t respond, the dancer pursed her lips. “If you choose to continue in this manner, I shall be forced to seek an engagement at one of the pleasure gardens for the summer to earn my keep, and you’ll have to cope with Ashby’s on your own, You won’t have
time
to write or wallow in this misery.”
Her tone was sharp, edged with the frustration of a friend who has offered abundant kindness and compassion—to no avail.
“As you wish…” Sophie replied dully, pulling the counterpane more tightly under her chin.
Lorna stood in the center of the chamber, staring down at the woman who had become such a dear and treasured friend.
“Good God, Sophie!” she exclaimed. “I won’t allow you to go on this way. Come! Get dressed. At least, let us escape these four walls. We can close the shop for an hour and take a walk around the Great Piazza. ’Tis a glorious spring day.”
Reluctantly, Sophie allowed herself to be persuaded to rise from bed, don a simple blue cotton dress, and descend the stairs into Half Moon Passage for the first time in more than a month.
“May I visit her grave?” she said in a small voice as they approached the tall, gated entrance to St. Paul’s churchyard.
“Of course,” Lorna replied, putting her arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Look at all the lovely crocuses and paperwhites,” she exclaimed, pointing at the clusters of spring flowers dotting the graveyard.
The friends stood side by side in front of the small mound of earth whose miniature headstone gave witness to the short life of Danielle McGann Lindsay. Several bouquets of dead flowers lay strewn on the grave itself. Sophie stooped to pick up an array of dried roses with a small card noting they’d been sent by David Garrick and his wife.
“Here’s one from Mr. Lacy!” Lorna exclaimed, fingering a batch of dead daffodils. “And one from Darnly, of course.”
But Sophie was staring down at a small bouquet of violets, petals stiffened, now, into a shade of dark magenta. She noticed a scrap of parchment attached to the short stalks with a piece of wool. Her hands began to shake as she squinted in the bright May sunshine
reading the words inscribed
.
Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death…
Lorna peered over Sophie’s shoulders to get a better look. The card was signed
H.R.
“From the third act of
Richard III,”
she said in a breath.
“’Tis about the murder of the little princes,” Sophie said, her voice shaking with hurt and shock. “Hunter thinks that what happened was the same as if I murdered my child.”
“Oh, Sophie, no!” Lorna replied swiftly.
“Yes, he
does!”
she responded, tears edging her words. “And he is right, of course. I did leave her… I was worried about her, but I was more worried about getting Peter out of the flat and fulfilling my obligation to Drury Lane.…
I left my sick child!”
she cried, her voice filled with anguish.
Sophie turned away from Danielle’s grave and covered her face with her hands. Sobs racked her body. Lorna quickly put her arms around her friend, cradling her head against her shoulder.
“You had so much troubling your mind…” she soothed, stroking Sophie’s hair. “You were seeing to things as best you could, Sophie… no one blames you for that—”
“He
d-does!” she gulped. “His own sister died when a wee thing, and I think he always blamed his mother for it.”
A new wave of grief seemed to sweep through her and her shoulders continued to shake with inconsolable crying. The edge of the parchment engraved with Hunter’s reproach cut against her hand, and its words burned into her memory forever.
Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death.
How prophetic those words were, Sophie thought, as fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. She doubted that in the years to come she would ever feel free from the remorse she carried in her heart.
“Oh, Sophie… ’twas not like that at all!” Lorna insisted fiercely. “This ague can vanquish children of noble houses with seven nannies in attendance! You were worried about having money to be able to look after Danielle and you did what you thought best. You mustn’t torture yourself like this! Hunter has no idea what problems confronted you. You did the best you
could!”
Sophie raised her head from Lorna’s shoulder and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “But he thinks I willingly let Peter stay with me… that I allowed him to bed me and ignored my sick child.” She shuddered, holding out the crumpled parchment in her hand as living proof.
A pensive look crossed Lorna’s features.
“Men can be such fools… so ready to think themselves cuckolded and their honor besmirched. ’Tis an abominable trait.” Her face brightened and she smiled at her friend. “But you’re a
writer,
Sophie! You must compose a careful missive explaining exactly what transpired. ’Twill convince him that what he
thought
he saw was not the truth. You must write him.”
Sophie stared at Lorna, a ray of hope shining in her eyes.
“No,” she said firmly, straightening her shoulders. “I shall go right now to speak to him. ’Tis nearly three months hence… certainly we’re both calmer now… perhaps I
can
make him understand. ’Tis not that I am blameless… who knows that better than I? But surely, he can’t truly think me a murderess!”
“Good lass,” Lorna said approvingly. She brushed a strand of auburn hair back from her friend’s forehead and settled her light wool shawl tidily on her shoulders. “Get on with you.”
Ten minutes later, Sophie greeted the stage doorkeeper at Covent Garden with a forced smile and asked to see Hunter Robertson.
“Sorry miss, but Mr. Robertson appeared in
Blind Man’s Bluff
on the nineteenth and departed for Comely Gardens the next day.”
“He’s gone to
Edinburgh
?” she said as bitter dismay infected her manner and voice. “I thought—to lure him from Dublin—the management here had bid him stay for at least two
years!”
“Oh they did, right enough,” the doorkeeper confirmed, “but he left in a rush, soon as the season concluded—or at least, his part of it.”
“But surely he’ll return next autumn?”
“Well, Mr. Beard and the other managers want the lad’s services, to be sure,” the doorkeeper volunteered, “but I heard he’s signed on in Bristol next season. Seems foolhardy to me to play the provinces when one can be the toast of London town… but there’s no accounting for these actors. Children, all of ’em. Willful, spoiled children, I calls ’em!”
Sophie mumbled her thanks and retreated past the stage entrance before she allowed fresh tears to stream down her face.
“He’s left London… because of me,” she cried as Lorna rushed up Hart Street to her side. “He’s gone to Edinburgh and then signed for next season with the theater in Bristol!”
“Well, then…” Lorna said, trying to find some shred of hope, “you’ll write to him
there!
Only the emotion of the moment could have persuaded him to take such a rash step.”
A feeling of irreparable loss gripped Sophie, nearly cutting off her breath. The crumpled parchment was a reminder of the depth of Hunter’s abhorrence at the circumstances of Danielle’s death. ’Twas no rash step, Sophie thought disconsolately. ’Twas only after several months’ consideration that he’d given up a coveted position at one of the finest theaters in the world to escape from her presence.
Sophie closed her eyes and attempted to breathe evenly. The line from Shakespeare’s
Richard III
ran through her mind in a kind of anguished litany. He had posted the hex on Danielle’s grave before he fled from London. ’Twas not a missive from a cuckolded lover, she thought, an ache tightening her chest. Hunter wished her to suffer as much as he imagined little Danielle—or his own sister—had suffered from neglect at the hands of the very people charged with protecting them. The note left in St. Paul’s churchyard was intended as a curse… and accursed by him she was.