Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew's laughter pealed at Richard Samson's dramatic flourishes with her coat.
She looked in Kydd's direction. "Did y' enjoy tonight at all?" she called to him.
"I did that," Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.
She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. "It's not my business, but have y' somewhere t' go to?"
Put off-balance Kydd mumbled something, but she interrupted: "I understand, m' dear, we see a lot of 'em down on their luck, like. Well, not t' worry. Look, we're travelling players an' we have t' take a big enough place for the season. Jem just quit, so why don't y' stay with us for a while?" She turned to Samson. "That's all right, isn't it, Dickie?" she said winsomely.
A fiercely protective eye regarded Kydd. "As long as ye don't smoke a pipe, m' good man."
Staggered by their generosity, Kydd took his leave of Carne, pocketed his coins and followed his new friends out into the night.
It was heaven to lie in a proper bed and Kydd slept soundly. In the morning he went diffidently down to join the others but found not a soul abroad at that hour. He made himself useful, squaring away after the wind-down party of the previous evening, to the surprise of the maid-of-all-work, who arrived late and seemed to find his presence unhelpful.
His gear was in the sail-loft and he went out to retrieve those things that would fit into his modest room, reflecting on the strangeness of life that it could change so quickly. When he returned, a young man was holding an angry conversation with a wall and Richard Samson was stalking about in an exotic bed-robe reading aloud from a script in ringing tones.
"Ah, I thought we'd lost you, Mr Cutlass," he roared, when he spotted Kydd. "A yen to feel the ocean's billows, perhaps? Or a midnight tryst with a fair maiden? Do come in and hide those things away."
One by one the others appeared, but it was not until after ten that Griselda made her entrance, the men greeting her with exaggerated stage bows while she sailed in to take the least faded armchair.
"Miss Mayhew." Kydd bowed too.
"Oh dear," she replied. "The others call me Rosie—why don't you, Tom?"
"I will," Kydd said, with a grin. It had been an entertaining morning, rehearsing cue lines from a script for whoever asked it of him and his spirits were high. "Ye're starting a new play, I hear."
"Of course, dearie." She sighed. "We open every second Friday with new. Guernsey's not a big enough place we can stay wi' the same all the time." She looked at Kydd speculatively. "You're not t' be a stagehand for ever. When shall you pick up a script?"
"Well, I . . ." A famous actor? Strutting the stage with swooning ladies to either side, the confidences of princes and dukes? Folk flocking from far and near having heard that the legendary Tom Cutlass was playing? "I'll think on it," he came back awkwardly.
On the way to the theatre he called at the post office and this time there was a letter to collect. It was from Renzi. He ripped it open and three coins fell out. He scrabbled to retrieve them and eagerly scanned the hurried lines. Renzi had met with unexpected success. Soon after arriving he had made the acquaintance of a Prince de Bouillon, whom Kydd took to be an exiled royalist, and had been fortunate enough to find employ in his household as a private secretary. The enclosed thirty livres Kydd could expect every month from his wages.
A lump rose in his throat. With this generous gift he was now free to continue with his quest for as long as he . . . But he had already concluded that he was getting nowhere in uncovering the plot and must give up—must he track about hopelessly for ever? He had a life to lead. He could at least still hope for a ship in England and, in any case, as an officer even of declined circumstances there were genteel niches in society . . . But the instant he left the islands it would be the final surrender to his unjust fate—and Lockwood would have had his vengeance. Was there no middle way?
There were no performances on the Sunday. Some of the players went to Alderney on a visit while others simply slept. Moodily Kydd went to the deserted front parlour and sprawled on the sofa. Unable to escape his thoughts he laid down his newspaper and closed his eyes.
The door opened and the swish of a dress made him look up. "Do I disturb you, Tom?"