Philip sat there in his crimson velvet doublet, one black leg crossed over the other, his thin lips parted above his golden beard as he sucked the stem of his tobacco pipe. There was surprise in his cold blue eyes, but it was not the surprise of recognition, only the surprise of hundreds of others that afternoon, that Juliet was not to be played by the good-looking boy who would become the talk of the town. He did not know me, yet. Would his memory be stirred before the long play was over? Would some trick of my walk or my voice, my voice especially, which had never lost its cumberland ring, start a train of recollection in his mind which would mean disaster?
I can only play on, I thought to myself, and hope for the best. With this wig and makeup and these flouncing clothes, I must look utterly different from the boy he saw in the dawn light under Blen Catheray and chased through the Penrith Inn. I'd watch Kit play the part so often at rehearsals, and she used to act as though she were inspired, as though she were Juliet, living it all, instead of Kit Kirkstone pretending.
I couldn't act like that to save my life, but as Shakespeare said, I was a pretty good mimic. I remembered the way Kit used to speak each line, the words she stressed, the rise and fall of her voice. I knew her moves, too, and the way she looked when she spoke certain lines, and all her bi-play with hands and handkerchiefs and the dagger at the end.
My Juliet was like a looking-glass reflection of hers. That is a perfect comparison. Would Alexander G.
come to the office, please? Alexander G.? But at least it looked all right. First, I was acting for only one member of the audience, Sir Philip. I knew that my safety depended on my complete concealment of Peter Brownrigg.
Sir Philip must see me only as Juliet. But as the afternoon wore on, and the spectators lost their original disappointment and grew more friendly, I began to forget my danger and play as a good actor should for the whole audience. At my second exit, there was a real round of applause.
which warmed me as a glass of wine would have done. Burbage encouraged me in a gruff whisper. Shakespeare tweaked my ear affectionately.
The situation was saved. So far as the play was concerned, Sir Philip was another matter. His eyes were on me the whole time I was on the stage. Sometimes my acting brought me within a pace or two of his outstretched foot.
Once his tobacco set me coughing in the middle of a long speech. He muttered an apology and immediately tapped out his pipe against his heel. Yes, it was lucky for me that Sir Philip, with all his faults, was a true lover of the theatre. He enjoyed our show that afternoon. Had he been bored, his mind might have started idly wandering, and goodness knows to what perilous conclusions it might have come.
As it was, When I finally drove my blunt stage dagger into the folds of my dress and subsided carefully and gracefully on Burbage's chest, I felt pretty certain that all was well. I got a shock a minute or two later. No sooner had my corpse been ceremoniously carried off the stage by the prince's attendants, and rather less ceremoniously set down on its feet in the wings, than a hefty fellow tapped me on the shoulder. Do the edge, he inquired.
Yes, I'm groomed to Sir Philip Morton. Yes, I braced myself for flight, but I knew it would be difficult in my stage clothes. Sir Philip liked your acting, said the groom. He doesn't want to see me, does he? I couldn't possibly see you.
The man snorted. What would he want to see a boy like you for? No, he just told me to give you this.
And he walked off with his bow-legged groom's walk, leaving me with a box of sweets in my hand. I looked after him, speechless. And when he had gone, everyone wondered why I burst out laughing and leant back against the wall, unable to stop. Five minutes later, when I'd just stepped out of my costume and was standing in my own short pants and shirt, Burbage appeared.
Good lad, he said briefly. You've just saved us. I should have been immensely pleased, but I saw a look in his eye.
Where's that rascal? he demanded. Who do you mean?
I said stupidly, knowing only too well. I'm gonna thrash him within an inch of his life! I said with a terrible gulp, my feet into my holes and began fastening the points at my waistline.
What had happened to Kit? Had she gone home? Best place for her till Burbage's wrath had abated. He wasn't safe company at present. Think she...
he wasn't feeling well. I started, but Burbage cut me short. Don't make excuses for the little beast!
He raged. There is no excuse for throwing up a part without notice. If the cursed boy didn't act like an angel, I'd throw him out neck and crop and never let him set foot in a theatre again.
As it is, I'm going to give him the thrashing of his misspent life. Kit chose that very moment to swagger in, looking as pleased as if she'd just laid an egg. All her fear had gone.
She was on top of the world. Congratulations, Pete, you... Then she saw Burbage turning grimly to face her, and her jaw dropped. You'd better run, Kit!
I shouted. But Burbage stepped between her and the door. Well?
he said. And that one syllable held as much terror as a sentence of execution. I'm so sorry, sir, said Kit. But, you see... You are going to be sorry, he corrected her.
Very sorry. Sorrier than you have ever been about anything in your life. But, but, she stammered, Peter was so good, he might not have been, said Burbage. You didn't know?
He moved slowly towards her, his hands outstretched. You mustn't, I shouted, clutching his arm. You mustn't really, Mr. Burbage.
Listen, Kit isn't... Shut up, Peter, said Kit fiercely. She was determined to take what was coming to her.
Perhaps she thought it was going to be a mere spanking. I think she had never seen a boy thrashed by an angry man till the blood flows. Get out of the way, said Burbage, quietly. And with one jerk of his arm, he sent me tumbling into a corner. It was towering above her now.
You disobedient, worthless, disloyal, irresponsible, ungrateful, unprofessional. What's this? Shakespeare's voice came smoothly from the doorway. Is this a new punishment, Dick? Sentenced to receive 101 adjectives?
Better than strokes, anyhow. He's going to get the strokes as well. Shakespeare crossed the room and took his friend gently by the arm. No, Dick. Leave this to me.
Well, you're too kind-hearted. The young actor scoundrel must have his lesson. The first rule of an actor is never to let down his company.
Shakespeare didn't move from his side. If anyone is to teach him the rules of acting, let it be I. You? My dear Will, you may write like the muse herself, but when it comes to acting, I bow to you every time. Shakespeare admitted with a smile.
Nonetheless, these two boys are my apprentices. No one else in the company lays a finger on them. All right.
Burbage stepped back with a shrug of his shoulders. So be it. But it's your job to keep your apprentices in order. If we have any more of this nonsense, out of the company they go. Leave them to me.
There will be no more nonsense. Burbage stalked out. Kit looked at Shakespeare meekly. Are you going to thrash me? He laughed.
You know perfectly well I'm not. My dear, we both gasped, Kit and I. He closed the door and motioned to us to sit down.
I guess some days ago, he said, no boy could have played Juliet as you did. Though, he added with a friendly glance at me, Peter echoed you very cleverly. Now, won't you tell me all about it?
And to my amazement, Kit... who had kept so many secrets from me all this time, poured out her whole story. As I said before, Shakespeare was an understanding man. He felt you could tell him things. He was a bit like Juliet, she said.
I suppose that's why the part came easy to me. My guardian wanted me to marry a man I didn't like. You're young, said Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows.
Thirteen. Nearly as old as Juliet. Anyhow, the wedding wasn't to be for a year or two, but the formal engagement was all planned ready.
And Romeo? Arthur's eyes twinkled scornfully. Wasn't any Romeo. Don't want to marry anybody.
So all I did was to run away from my guardian's house one evening as soon as it was dark. I joined Desmond's company as a boy, and you know all the rest. I mean to stop away from home till I'm old enough to please myself and not be bullied by any of them.
I pity the man who marries you against your will, chuckled Shakespeare. Why should he want to? I asked. It sounded daft to me.
It may surprise you to know, said Kit, turning to me with great dignity, but I'm extraordinarily well connected, and when I come of age I inherit a magnificent estate. So there, cried Shakespeare with a triumphant grin. Now we know why the man wanted such a quaint little imp for his wife.
Pig, she said. You still haven't explained, Miss Catherine Russell, why you were seized with panic just before the play began and risked ruining our whole performance. I'm terribly sorry, she answered, and for the first time she looked genuinely ashamed of herself. I was so frightened I forgot everything else.
But why? The man who wants to marry me was in the audience. I knew he'd recognize me at once if he saw me dressed as a girl. What's his name? asked Shakespeare.
I know! I cried, seeing daylight suddenly. Sir Philip Morton!
Chapter 11. The House of the Yellow Gentleman. It was good to have finished with secrets at any rate between... Kit and me and our friend. When Kit heard the full story of my own dealings with Sir Philip, she was full of apologies for sending me into the danger she had avoided herself.
But, as I pointed out, the cases were different. I, as Juliet, looked utterly unlike myself. Kit, in the same costume, looked far more like Catherine Russell than ever she did in her everyday disguise as a boy.
Man's a brute, she said viciously. He doesn't care tuppence about me. Really, treats me as a child. All he wants to do is to lay hands-