‘I hope that the boy has her dedication. She learns very quickly.’
‘Does she have children of her own?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She’s very discreet about her private life. At a guess, I’d say that she’s not a mother herself. Perhaps that’s why she’s lavishing her affection on her nephew.’
They went through into the room at the rear of the establishment. While Charlotte removed her hat, Ackford checked the book to see what his teaching commitments were for the rest of the day.
‘Two boxers and three fencers,’ he noted.
‘One of the swordsmen will be Paul. He never misses a lesson.’
‘Well, he’s missing one today, Charlotte. He’s sent word that he’s not well enough to engage in a lively bout.’
She was worried. ‘Has he been injured in some way?’
‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘The servant said that his master felt sick. That’s not the word I’d have used,’ he added with a laugh. ‘We’ve all seen the way that Paul has been behaving. There’s a new woman in his life, Charlotte, and she seems to have made a real impact on him. That’s why he’s not here today. He’s pining.’
She missed him. At the end of the performance on the previous evening, Hannah Granville had basked in the rapturous applause before sweeping off to her dressing room. Ordinarily, she’d have been buoyed up by the prospect of seeing Paul Skillen again. He would be waiting at the stage door to whisk her away from the melee of unwanted admirers. When she remembered how she treated him when they’d last met, and how she’d prevented him from visiting her in her dressing room, she’d realised that her lover would not be dancing attendance on her. Hannah had been compelled to leave the theatre alone, sneaking out through the usual gathering of suitors. Her bed that night seemed icily cold and uncomfortably empty.
Throughout the day, she’d reflected on the joy that Paul had brought into her life and she blamed herself for being so precipitate. With the vanity common to her profession, Hannah was not accustomed to putting herself in the position of others. Her attentions were centred wholly on herself. The rift with Paul, however, was causing her pain and regret. When she made an effort to view the situation from his perspective, she saw how cruel her ultimatum must have been to him. How would she have felt if Paul had insisted that the price of his love was her immediate retirement from the theatre? It would have been a shattering demand. Hannah was sobered. In ordering him to resign from his dangerous occupation, she was telling him to stop being the person he really was. It must have been a crushing blow to him.
As she prepared to leave for the theatre that evening, she did so without the usual exhilaration. Her performance would undoubtedly win acclaim but Hannah did not look forward to it with any relish. When it was all over, the man she loved would not be waiting for her. The bed would be even colder and more uncomfortable that night. Leaving the house, she climbed into the open carriage sent to fetch her and settled back. Rolling off to another triumph, she felt a sense of abject failure. When she died of a broken heart onstage that evening, Hannah would do so with touching verisimilitude. She would not, however, be mourning her husband, Jaffeir, stabbed to death by his own hand. Her tears would be shed for Paul Skillen, stabbed by the verbal dagger that she’d wielded.
Absorbed by rueful thoughts of him, she saw nothing of the streets through which they rattled. The stench of London for once didn’t reach her nostrils. The usual pandemonium went unheard. And then, without warning, she felt an invisible hand shake her out of her daydream. It was a timely awakening. When Hannah looked around, she saw Paul walking along the pavement no more than ten yards away. Wanting to cry out his name, she was somehow struck dumb. To attract his attention therefore, she stood up and waved both arms. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before and went on his way. Hannah felt utterly rebuffed. It was over. In making unfair demands of him, she’d driven him away for ever. Flopping back into her seat, she plucked a handkerchief from her reticule and wept silently into it.
Still wondering whom the beautiful woman in the carriage had been, Peter Skillen walked quickly on his way.
‘Holy Jesus!’ exclaimed Tom O’Gara. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘You’ve done a good job,’ said Moses Dagg, grudgingly.
‘We could never have written anything like this.’
‘It’s bound to make him take notice.’
‘Thank you,’ said the scrivener with an oily smirk.
Since neither of the sailors could read as well as him, he’d read out the document to them with ponderous slowness. They’d been amazed at the way he’d turned their angry demands into a calm and persuasive narrative. Against his will, Jubal Nason had appended a threat of what would happen if their requirements were not granted. They were thrilled at the result. Couched in educated phrases, the document was written in a practised hand by a talented scrivener. O’Gara thrust the money he’d borrowed from his cousin into the man’s hand.