“There is no need to apologize, my dearFullarton,” Sir P. said, and Fullarton would invariably reply,“Sorry.”
Cyrus Crenshaw’s vowels were no less amazingthan Cobb’s, and he rambled through Demetrius’s heatedprotestations of love for Hermia as if they had been penned in aforeign tongue, while Hermia, played by Clemmy Crenshaw, respondedin a grating whine that increasingly skidded and slewed in concertwith her emotions (principally, fear). Cobb noted that Crenshawwould alternately glare at her for her mistakes (exacerbated by hisindecipherable cues) or offer her the tight smile of along-suffering spouse. Whenever she dared unglue her gaze from thepage, she directed it not at Demetrius (who was supposedly pursuingher through the forest) but at Lady Mad, who was seated beside himand attired more like Salomé than the fairy-queen.
Andrew Dutton, Cobb recalled, had been quickto seize the chair on the other side of Lady Mad when the cast hadfollowed the director out of the dining-room at seven-forty-five.And more than once, Lady Mad had rewarded his diligence by leaningover and pointing out a cue on the page before him with a dainty,manicured finger. Whenever Cobb spotted this manoeuvre he glancedat Sir P. – at the head of the table – and was surprised to seethat, even though he could not help but notice his wife’sflirtations, Sir P. chose not to react to them in any visiblemanner. Odd, Cobb mused, but then he had always presumed that lordsand their ladies were not really expected to like eachother.
Lady Mad, who like Cobb knew her lines byheart, performed with practised ease, an advantage that allowed hertime and space to let her gaze wander wherever it wished. Severaltimes it met Cobb’s head-on and held steady, as if she wereappraising him with some skepticism while signalling a generalapproval of what she was seeing. He would have to be careful aroundher. The only male, besides her husband, whom she did not includein her coquetry was Fullarton. Despite the distractions, Cobb wasable to bring enough life to the character of Bottom the weaver todraw several reluctant chuckles from the others and one or twoenvious glances from the gentlemen opposite him.
Young Lizzie Wade, the niece, read the partof Helena with zest and feeling, except when her uncle intervenedand caused her to stammer. Her piteous exchanges with Demetrius,who spurns her pursuit for more than an act, drew the attention ofeveryone at the table, but failed to inspire coherent speech fromCrenshaw. However, he did succeed in feasting his eyes upon theyoung beauty whenever he could take them off the perils of thepage. Meantime, Sir P. seemed to be enjoying the role of Puck, wholike a seasoned director orchestrates the mayhem of the play bydisseminating his magic dust and flitting about trying to undo hislaughter-inducing errors. He read his lines with a slightlyelevated voice and a quick pace suited to the imp in Puck’scharacter, but it was the flitting and nimbling that musteventually accompany the words that gave one pause. No amount ofmakeup or costuming would be able to transform a five-foot-five,one-hundred-and-seventy-pound gentleman of fifty-some years intoShakespeare’s sprightly master-of-misrule.
In the ten-minute break between sessions,Cobb observed closely the groupings the cast formed once freed fromthe script and the rehearsal table. Lady Mad sat where she was.Lizzie brought her a cup of coffee from the dining-room and theysat together, chatting amiably. Sir P. took his director’s tomeinto the den and shut the door. In the dining-room, Dutton satalmost at the far end of the table while the Crenshaws settled innext to the pastry-tray. Fullarton stood for a moment, uncertain,then sat down near them. Cobb lingered near the doorway, pretendingto study his script.
“I guess you read the whole sordid story ofwhat happened to Langford in the Examiner today?” Crenshawsaid to Fullarton.
“I did. But I still don’t believe Brodiecapable of that sort of violence,” Fullarton said.
“It is hard to believe, Horace. But then, Ididn’t know the lad like you did.”
“They won’t find him guilty, will they?”Clemmy said, her eye on a second tart.
“I’m sure they won’t,” Fullarton said, but hedidn’t sound too confident. “I heard he’s secured the services ofBaldwin and Sullivan.”
“Good firm, even if they are Reformers.” Thiswas Dutton from the far end of the table.
“The young man’s done the town a good deed,”Crenshaw said, “if he’s rid us of a blackmailer. Can’t think ofanythin’ lower than that sort of scoundrel.”
“Skulkin’ about in alleys an’ pickin’envelopes outta trash bins,” Clemmy said with disgust. “Goodriddance, I say. They oughta give the boy a medal.”
At this point the director called the troupeback into session.
The second run-through was marginallysuperior to the first one, though it was hard to tell because forevery correction there was a corresponding and fresh mistake.Nevertheless, Sir P. declared himself so satisfied that on Thursdaythey would begin the rehearsal with a final reading and then moveimmediately to the stage for some basic blocking. Everyone wasurged to memorize as many of his lines as could be managed.
Cobb was given a lift in Dutton’s carriage asfar as Sherbourne and King. As he walked past Briar Cottage, he sawa light in the front window. But he didn’t go in. He had nothing ofsubstance to report. Not yet.
***
The read-through on Thursday evening produced muchmangled verse but no information useful to Cobb. Clemmy Crenshawwas not only unimproved in her performance of Hermia (though itcould certainly be classified as comedy), she drew furtherattention to herself by arriving in a taffeta, purple-huedball-gown wound so tightly and shimmering so vividly as toemphasize each one of the uncoordinated bulges underneath. Gonewere the ringlettes, replaced by an upswept swirl and a bun at therear, imprisoned by a solitary, courageous, pearl-tipped hatpin.When she attempted a smile, you could hear her face-paintcrack.
Sir P., who had rubbed his chins raw with hisplump fingers during the reading, pronounced his charges ready torepair to the stage, where they would be introduced to the rigoursof movement and blocking. However, while they were indulging inrefreshments in the interval, measurements would be taken for theircostumes. Two ladies from Smallman’s shop, he informed them,were at present in the other section of the house sizing up thefour little Wades for their fairy outfits. Of those here in themain troupe, Lysander and Demetrius would wear standard doubletsand the young Helena a simple white shift – costumes easily fittedout from the Shuttleworth theatre-trunk. As Hermia was of asomewhat more “mature” figure (and here Clemmy beamed andcrackled), she would require a freshly designed frock that wouldaccentuate the best aspects of said figure and contributematerially to having the audience accept her as an ingénue. Mrs.Halpenny from Smallman’s would provide that special piece ofproperty, along with the ass’s head for Bottom, who would performin coveralls and a jerkin. Costumes for the king and queen of thefairies would be supplied from the inexhaustible trunk, and Puck,last but not least, would surprise the cast with a creation out ofhis own hand. At this point, the door to the ladies’ withdrawingroom opened and in came Rose Halpenny and Beth Edwards, a basket ofclothes and tailoring instruments between them.
***
Now and again, ever since Ogden Frank had opened theRegency Theatre at the rear of his hotel on Colborne Street in1837, Beth’s dressmaking business had catered to the professionaltouring companies who visited from Montreal, New York and Buffalo -mending, refitting and occasionally designing and making entirecostumes. Rose Halpenny, in charge of that half of Beth’senterprise, was a master seamstress with a flare for design. Beth,who was good with people, putting them instantly at ease, usuallyaccompanied Rose on missions such as this one. During the bustleand genial confusion that followed their arrival and the display ofpotential costumes they had selected from the Shuttleworthrepository, Cobb was able to sidle up to Beth and speak to herwithout drawing undue attention.