“I
could teach you to read,” she said slowly. Hunter’s penetrating blue eyes flitted across her face, but he did not respond. In fact, he didn’t appear to have heard what she had said at all. “I’d be willing to teach you to read,” she repeated while almost holding her breath.
Hunter cocked his head to one side and stared down at her, deep in thought. During the silence, Sophie found herself gazing at his luxuriant dark blond hair, which was pulled back smoothly and fastened with a leather thong in simple periwig style at the nape of his neck.
“Wee as you are, I expect you could,” he said at length. He seemed to be studying her. “Sixteen, are you?” he murmured. “M’sister Meg would have been about your age now…” Some half-buried memory seemed to be rekindled in his mind and he took a long breath. Sophie felt awkward under his scrutiny and made no reply. Then, in a sudden shift of mood, he flashed her the rakish grin that had so charmed his audience. “I’ll be taking those,” he ordered, extracting the playbills and actors’ sides from her arms and placing the copy of
Macbeth
ceremoniously on top of the pile. “I’ve just had a grand idea for m’self!”
“And what might that be?” Sophie demanded with an excited giggle. When Hunter bestowed on her that engaging, mischievous grin, the world seemed full of marvelous possibilities.
“You’ll see. Lead on, MacDuff!” Hunter cried in mock, stentorian tones, quoting a line Sophie had so recently copied from
Macbeth
in her commission for the manager of the Canongate Playhouse. Hunter laughed at her quizzical look. “If an illiterate knave from Nairn—not a day’s ride from Macbeth’s castle—is going to know
anything
of Shakespeare, it’s bound to be
that
play, wouldna you suppose?”
Sophie could hardly suppress a smile, and Hunter took it as a signal that he was welcome to accompany her as she delivered her wares.
“Come, wee Sophie McGann,” he said with a rascally chuckle. “Let us convey these placards and scripts to the renowned thespians of the Canongate Playhouse—and see what fate awaits!”
***
Sophie and Hunter made their way through an arched stone portal into Playhouse Close itself, a narrow alleyway that led off the High Street to the entrance of the theater. Once inside, they paused to get their bearings in the murky light that filtered through the auditorium. Their nostrils were assaulted by a pungent odor of tallow still hanging in the air, a remnant of the hundreds of candles placed in wall sconces, overhead chandeliers, and troughs at the front of the stage to illuminate the evening performances.
Sophie squinted in the gloom, searching for David Beatt, the theater’s perpetually harried manager. Suddenly, a loud noise rumbled through the building and a trapdoor in the front of the stage popped up and then slammed down against the stage floor. A bald-headed gentleman pulled himself through the square opening to a sitting position, his legs dangling down into some unfathomable pit. It was the manager himself, minus his hairpiece.
“Halloo, Mr. Beatt,” Sophie called loudly, advancing toward the stage. “’Tis I, Sophie McGann, with your playbills and sides.”
“Lot of good ’twill do me now,” the theater manager groused, shaking his head disgustedly. “That scoundrel West Digges took flight last week and this morning I find several more players have fled in the night with nary a fare-thee-well! Now, what shall I do for a leading man, I ask you?” he demanded. “As it seems I must cancel the rest of our playing schedule, those playbills won’t be of much use to me, will they?” he demanded peevishly.
“But I’ve gone and
printed
them, as you requested,” Sophie responded sharply, attempting to keep the dismay in her voice from turning into a whine. “We’ve used up considerable paper at the shop, not to mention our labor,” she added, recalling only too vividly the exhausting hours she’d spent in the low-ceilinged room that housed their small printing press. Her back still ached from the exertion it required to ink the metal letters with a short-handled wooden cup covered by a large wool pad sheathed in sheepskin. Once she’d thoroughly saturated the type with the viscous black fluid, her slender arms had barely the strength to pull the bar of the wooden press, thus lowering the platen, and thereby pressing the paper into the inked type set in a wooden frame. All this effort produced but a single playbill, and David Beatt had ordered
fifty copies
to trumpet the playhouse’s last two offerings of the season. She ached in every bone by the time she’d finished the job.
She cast him a pointed look. “I’ve also penned the sides for
Macbeth,
just as you directed,” she said dolefully, hoping her lament would shame him into settling accounts despite his own woes.
The manager wearily pulled himself to a standing position and slammed the trap door back into place.
“I’ll pay… I’ll pay,” he said resignedly with a wave of his hand. “But you’ll have to be patient, Sophie. I must get Rutledge up in the part of Macbeth and fill in with the remnants as best I can. Then we must sell tickets and fill the coffers. ’Twill take a bit more time before the fees are squared, that’s all.”
That’s all!
Sophie thought, her spirits sinking. She knew David Beatt would eventually meet his financial obligations to McGann’s, but her father needed funds
now
to remain in business.
Hunter Robertson interrupted her gloomy thoughts by shifting his six-foot frame and poking Sophie gently with his elbow.
“Oh… yes…” she said, attempting to summon enthusiasm in the wake of such disappointing news. “Ah… Mr. Beatt… I-I’d like to introduce you to a splendid singer and jug—I mean,
performer.
This is Hunter Robertson. Hunter?” she said, turning to take the pile of playbills from his arms, “this is David Beatt, manager of the Canongate Playhouse.”
Beatt’s bushy gray eyebrows seemed to bristle.
“Weren’t you the one tossing wooden clubs in the air in front of my playhouse?” he demanded irritably. “I’ll not have you wheedling coins from the crowds on nights we play here, young man, I’ll warrant you
that!”
“Aye, sir, I am that very performer,” Hunter said eagerly, as if Beatt’s familiarity with his juggling act indicated the warmest of welcomes. He reached for one of Sophie’s handwritten parts from
Macbeth.
“Since ye are short of players,” he continued baldly, “perhaps I could take part in crowd scenes in yer new
Macbeth,
or even play a small part?” he added, waving the manuscript at Beatt.
“It would have to be a
small
part, to be sure,” Beatt replied sarcastically, “with that unintelligible Highland burr of yours. I can barely understand you myself, and my mother was from Inverness!”
Sophie glanced at Hunter, but the insult seemed simply to bounce off him.
“’Tis m’plan to improve m’speech,” Hunter retorted cheerfully. “And m’grandfather and I could provide musical interludes on stage, here, that might please your patrons.”
Beatt pulled on one of his bushy eyebrows as he apparently considered Hunter’s proposition. Then he scratched his bald head vigorously and seemed to come to some conclusion about the lad.
“Have you sufficient melodies to make up an evening’s concert? Enough
good,
lively fare?” Beatt asked, staring at Hunter narrowly.
Hunter threw back his dark golden head and laughed.
“M’grandfather and I know airs enough to present
ten
concerts!” he assured him. “We could perform for you till West Digges and all your laggard actors
beg
to come back to work!”
“Hmm…” said Beatt dourly. “I think a concert or two would suffice until I can get Rutledge ready for
Macbeth
.”
“And will you hazard me an opportunity to try m’hand at some small parts?” Hunter shot back his swift glance in Sophie’s direction telling her that he fully expected her to help him memorize the lines he could not read.
“I’ll allow you some crowd scenes, and we’ll leave it at that. You may continue performing in front of the playhouse—providing you’ll pay half the siller to
me.
It might attract a crowd.”
Hunter nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“And… uh… let’s plan one concert for… let me think… May fifteenth,” the manager continued. “Half the profits will accrue to you, minus house expenses, of course.”
“And what might those run?” Hunter inquired.
“Oh, the usual,” Beatt replied airily. “Candles, stage crew, playbill costs, my management fee. If you half-fill the playhouse, you’ll not be in arrears.”
“I see,” Hunter said with a doubtful look.
Noting Hunter’s lack of enthusiasm, Beatt quickly assured him, “And, of course, if you
do
fill at least half this barn, I’d definitely want you to perform musical fare during the intervals between the main performance and the afterpieces, next season.” Beatt pulled out a gold watch and chain from a small pocket in his stained waistcoat. “And now, pray excuse me,” he said, smoothing his bald crown with his stubby fingers. “Put the playbills and sides on the forestage, Sophie, and please print up some new ones announcing this young man’s concert. You know what it needs—the usual ruffles and flourishes to pull in the patrons. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, pointing to the trap door beneath his feet. “The deuced stage machinery has gone a bit wobbly and I must have at the repairs.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Hunter volunteered, flashing a sly wink at Sophie as David Beatt stooped to pull up the trap door once again.
Sophie rolled her eyes at her new acquaintance’s nerve. She suspected Hunter knew as much about the winches and pulley systems that created certain stage effects as he did about acting Shakespeare.
“Well, I must be off,” she announced, “and I shall count on you to compensate McGann’s for this new order—as well as the other one—as soon as you’re able, Mr. Beatt.”
“Of course, my dear…of course,” he pledged absently. “Just send me a complete accounting. Now Robertson, lad, if you can just have a quick look at the spindle that threads through the turnkey down here…”
The pair disappeared into the subterranean maze beneath the stage of the Canongate Playhouse, leaving Sophie no choice but to make her way through the pit, past the lower stalls, and out into the narrow stone close that lead back to the Royal Mile. As she trudged up the High Street and caught sight of the imposing granite tower of St. Giles Cathedral piercing the afternoon sky, she worriedly began to finger the single Scots penny that Hunter had given her as payment for dancing with him.
When Sophie walked through the door to McGann’s book shop, her father was sitting at his desk staring morosely at the pilfered shelves that surrounded him.
“They’ve confiscated most of the novels, the volumes on Eastern philosophies, the Shakespeare comedies, and virtually anything we had for sale that wasn’t written in English,” he reported dully.
Sophie stared dejectedly at the myriad gaps marking the absence of many well-loved books. She dashed over to a row of Bibles remaining on a lower shelf and investigated the space behind the tomes. Empty! The men of St. Giles had discovered her favorite hiding place for novels like
Miss Betsy Thoughtless
by Eliza Haywood and
Memoirs of Miss Sydney Biddulph
by Frances Sheridan whose recently published book had proved wildly popular with readers and irresistible to Sophie herself.
“Blast and bother!” Sophie cried. “They’ve practically put us out of business, the swine!”
“Now, Sophie…” Daniel cautioned, peering furtively out the shop’s square-paned windows flanking the High Street, “you must watch what you say! That Reverend Meeker is full of threats. You mustn’t let him hear you speak blasphemy.” Her father heaved a sigh and shook his head in defeat. “I must admit, I wonder if we shouldn’t just resign ourselves—”
“Da… no!” Sophie cried, rushing to his side. “We shall simply have to reorganize. I’ll make an inventory of what they failed to steal in the name of driving out Satan,” she added bitterly, “and we shall carry on as before.”
“But Sophie… to keep our doors open we must buy foolscap and ink and stock items ordered from London…”
Items from London…
those ghastly engravings!
Daniel McGann seemed so dispirited, Sophie hadn’t the heart to report to him Lord Lemore’s unseemly advances or that the aristocrat had not paid for the vile etchings he’d secured through McGann’s. She also hesitated to reveal that she knew her father’s financial woes had led him to traffic in such scurrilous material. Much as she despised the narrow-minded clerics who had wreaked havoc in their shop, still she found herself revolted by Lord Lemore’s perverse taste and her father’s catering to it. Unable to grapple with the conflicts the day’s events had brought to pass, Sophie pushed the entire situation from her mind, fervently hoping that neither the clergymen of St. Giles nor Lord Lemore would do anything else to cause them further trouble. Meanwhile, she dutifully produced a small playbill announcing in the largest type she could find a concert presenting: