London - Edward Rutherfurd [351]
He saw Bull waver. “You think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Very well,” Bull sighed, as he prepared to depart. “But I count on you.”
“To the death,” Edmund said, with a relief he could not describe.
The following day, he had word from the Burbages that his play would be performed next week.
The morning sun was still pale as Jane waited for Edmund outside the Globe, the day before his play. She was dressed in green. A faint, cool breeze coming up the Thames ruffled wisps of her reddish hair.
She was ready. She no longer felt a sense of triumph; indeed, if anything, she felt a little nervous. But she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to tell him she was getting married.
He would be along shortly, because this morning was the full rehearsal for his play. The Burbages had certainly done their work properly; he could not complain of that. On the door of the Globe behind her was a printed handbill proclaiming:
THE BLACKAMOOR
by
EDMUND MEREDITH
A thousand had been printed and distributed round the taverns, the Inns of Court and other places where playgoers gathered. They had also employed a crier to announce this and other highlights of the new theatre’s opening weeks.
She had heard from her father that there had been some hesitation about putting the play on. One of the brothers had wanted to rewrite it. In the end however, because of the debt and the services he had rendered over the lease, they had decided to proceed, but to do so quickly in the summer preseason while they were still settling in. The real season would open in the autumn with the new Shakespeare play.
Anyway, good or bad, Meredith’s writing was no longer any concern of hers. She composed herself as she saw him coming.
He was simply dressed today. The fashionable clothes were gone; he wore no hat. Instead of his usual saunter, there was a quickness, even a nervousness in his walk. As he came up, it seemed to her that he was grown thinner; and he was white as a sheet. He greeted her quietly. “Today’s the rehearsal.” He might have said funeral, he looked so woebegone. “They’ll hear it all.”
To keep their customers coming frequently, the playhouses had a constantly changing repertoire. With repeats of old favourites like Romeo and Juliet, and new plays which, if not liked, might get only one performance, actors had to perform several plays a week. Rehearsal times were extraordinarily short and, having conned his own part, an actor might not even know the shape of a play until the final rehearsal.
“What are they saying about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Edmund.”
“They told me,” he looked at her hopefully, “that it was so promising they wanted to put it on at once.”
“You should be pleased then.”
“I’ve got all my friends coming.” He brightened a little. “Rose and Sterne have promised to bring twenty.” He did not say that he had even written to Lady Redlynch for support. “But it’s the people in the pit I’m afraid of,” he suddenly confessed.
“Why?”
“Because,” he hesitated, and she was rather shocked to realize that his eyes were almost imploring: “What if they hiss?” And then, before she could even answer, “Do you think Dogget or somebody would bring some friends? To support in the pit?”
“You mean, you want me to ask him?” She paused. The conversation was drifting away from what she had intended. She abruptly changed its course. “Edmund, there is something else I have to tell you.”
“Yes? About the play?”
And then she stopped. He looked so frightened, so naked, so far from the confident fellow she knew. No, she realized, she could not tell him now. It could wait. “It will all go well,” she said instead. “Have courage.” For the first time feeling more like a mother than a lover, she reached up and kissed him.
“Go now,” she said.