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He was glad she was pleased. ‘You should thank Mr Slayton for giving me the tickets.’
‘Oh, I do.’ She turned to their mother. ‘Perhaps we should write him a note of gratitude.’
‘We shall do precisely that,’ her mother agreed.
‘Well, I am grateful, as well.’ Michael stood gazing out at the house. ‘This is a fine building.’
Nancy left her chair to stand beside him. ‘You will probably gaze all evening at the arches and ceiling and miss the play entirely.’
He grinned. ‘I confess they will distract me.’
She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘But the play is Romeo and Juliet. How can you think of a building when you shall see quite possibly the most romantic play ever written?’
He laughed. ‘Miss Vernon, I could try to convince you that beautiful arches and elegant columns are romantic, but I suspect you will never agree with me.’
‘I am certain I will not.’ She nodded.
‘I remember coming here in my first Season.’ Jack’s mother spoke in a wistful tone. ‘Of course, that was the old theatre. There were not so many boxes in that auditorium.’
That Drury Lane Theatre burned down in 1809.
Nancy surveyed the crowd. ‘There are many grand people here.’
The play was quite well attended, even though most of the beau monde would not come to London for another month or so. Perhaps Jack’s commissions would increase then. Of course, with the peace, many people had chosen to travel to Paris or Vienna and would not be in London at all. Still, the theatre had an impressive crowd. Edmund Kean had been drawing audiences all year in a series of Shakespearean plays.
Nancy leaned even further over the parapet. ‘Mama, I see Lord Tranville.’
‘Do you?’ Jack’s mother’s voice rose an octave.
‘There.’ Nancy stepped aside so her mother could see. ‘The third balcony. Near the stage.’
‘I believe you are correct.’ Her voice was breathless.
Tranville stood with another gentleman in a box close to the stage, the two men in conversation while surveying the theatre. If Tranville spied his former mistress in the crowd, he made no show of it.
The curtain rose and Nancy and Michael sat in their chairs. Nancy’s gaze was riveted to the stage, but their mother’s drifted to the nearby box where Tranville sat.
Jack’s jaw flexed.
Edmund Kean walked on.
‘He is old!’ Nancy whispered.
Shakespeare had written Romeo as a young man who falls in love as only a young man could. Kean’s youth was definitely behind him. Still, Kean made an impressive figure in the costume of old Verona, moving about the stage in a dramatic manner. It would be a challenge to capture that movement in oils, Jack thought.
Artists such as Hogarth and Reynolds painted the famous actors and actresses, Kemble and Garrick, Sarah Siddons and Daphne Blane. The portraits were engraved and printed in magazines and on posters in order to entice people to the theatre. Jack straightened. Perhaps the theatre could provide him with a clientele. He might not get commissions for the principal actors, but maybe the lesser known ones, or maybe he could depict whole scenes as they occurred on the stage. If he could paint the action of battle, he could easily paint the action of a London stage.
The idea took firm root in Jack’s mind. His studio was quite near to Covent Garden, so it would be convenient for the actors. Or he could easily come to the theatre. He began to imagine the scene onstage as he might paint it. He was ready to assess every scene for its artistic potential.
Romeo spoke the lines about planning to attend the Capulets’ supper. He left the stage, and Lady Capulet and the nurse entered, looking for Juliet.
Jack’s fingers itched for a pencil, wishing to sketch Lady Capulet and the nurse with their heads together.
‘See,’ Nancy whispered to her mother. ‘Lady Capulet is Daphne Blane. Her natural daughter is playing Juliet.’
Jack had the notion he’d seen Daphne Blane before. Of course, she was a notorious beauty whose conquests were as legendary as her performances on stage so he might have seen her image somewhere. The birth of her natural daughter had been the scandal of its day with much speculation on who the father might be. Many artists had painted Daphne Blane’s portrait. Why not Jack?
Juliet made her entrance. ‘How now? Who calls?’
‘Your mother,’ the nurse replied.
Juliet faced the audience. ‘Madam, I am here…’
Jack nearly rose from his chair.
Ariana.
Juliet was Ariana. From this distance, her features were not clear, but she moved like Ariana, sounded like her. He’d found her. He’d despaired of ever doing so.
His eyes never left her while she was on stage. His fingers moved on the arm of the chair as if he were drawing the graceful arch of her neck, the sinuous curves of her body.
The intermission was almost torture, because he could not record her on paper and he had to act as if his world had not suddenly tumbled on its ear. As the curtain closed on the actors’ final bows, Jack remained in his seat, staring at the curtain.
Michael gave his hand to Jack’s mother to help her rise, and Jack noticed his mother glancing in the direction of Tranville’s box.
Nancy sprang to her feet, her hands pressed together. ‘Was it not splendid? I mean, it was so sad, but so lovely, did you not think?’
Jack smiled at her, still partially abstracted. ‘You enjoyed it, then?’
Her blue eyes shone with pleasure. ‘I adored it.’ Michael helped her on with her cloak. ‘Well, perhaps not Romeo. Mr Kean was not my idea of Romeo, I assure you.’
Michael grinned. ‘Was he not romantic enough?’
‘He was old.’ Nancy made a face.
Jack’s mother glanced over her shoulder once more as they all made their way to the door. Once they were out in the noisy, crowded hallway, Jack would lose his chance to talk to them.
He placed a hand on his mother’s arm. ‘I should like your permission to part from you here.’
His mother shook her head. ‘Forgive me, Jack. What did you say?’
‘I would bid you goodnight here.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Would you escort the ladies home?’
‘I would be honoured and delighted,’ Michael replied. ‘But this is a surprise. Why do you leave us?’
Jack’s primary reason was to go in search of Ariana, but he had no wish to tell them that. He’d give them a partial truth. ‘I had the notion that I might paint the actors performing their roles. I want to seek out the manager and give him my card.’
‘You would paint the actors?’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘Why, that would be splendid! The print shops are always full of prints of actors. How perfect since you are so close to the theatre.’
‘My thoughts precisely,’ he responded, knowing this was not true. It was far less complicated than explaining about Ariana, however. ‘I should be able to offer a reasonable price.’
Nancy nodded. ‘Very sensible, Jack.’
‘Proceed, my son,’ his mother said. ‘We will manage without you.’
His mother rarely complained, not even when Tranville failed to call upon her. It had been a year since he had bothered.
‘Then I bid you all goodnight.’ He leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek.
Nancy smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing us, Jack.’
Michael made as if fighting with a sword. ‘Do not fret. I shall scare off any foes who dare to cross our path.’
Nancy giggled. ‘What nonsense. We shall take a hackney coach.’
Michael put his arm around her. ‘Yes, we shall, and I shall pay for it.’
Out in the hallway, they made for the theatre door and Jack for the stage. He did not know the location of the Green Room, where the actors and actresses gathered after the performance and where wealthy gentlemen went to arrange assignations with the loveliest of the women, but he suspected that would be where he would find Ariana.
Backstage he followed a group of wealthy-looking gentlemen, some carrying bouquets of flowers. Jack walked behind them, but suddenly stopped.
Tranville stood to the side of the door.
He still retained his military bearing, even though he was attired in the black coat, white breeches and stockings that made up the formal dress of a gentleman. His figure remained trim and only his shock of white hair gave a clue that he was a man who had passed his fiftieth year.
Tranville, unfortunately, also saw Jack.
‘Jack!’ He stepped in the younger man’s path. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not in Bath?’
Jack bristled. He’d never been able to disguise his dislike of this man, although when a child he doubted Tranville had even noticed. A few adolescent altercations with Tranville’s son Edwin had made the animosity clear and mutual. Jack never initiated the fisticuffs, but he always won and that rankled Tranville greatly.
Jack straightened and looked down on the older man. ‘I have business with the theatre manager.’
‘You?’ Tranville eyed him with surprise. ‘What business could you have with Mr Arnold?’
Jack felt an inward triumph. He now knew the manager’s name. ‘Business to be discussed with Mr Arnold.’
Tranville’s jaw flexed. ‘If it is theatre business, you may tell me. I am a member of the committee.’
‘The committee.’ This meant nothing to Jack.
Tranville averted his gaze for a moment. ‘The subcommittee for developing the theatre as a centre for national culture.’
Jack remembered it. Control of the theatre had been wrested from the debt-ridden owner, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and given to a manager and a board of directors. A subcommittee of notables had been appointed, but Jack doubted they had access to the purse strings. Nevertheless, if Jack had encountered any other member of the subcommittee he would have spoken of how his art work could further the committee’s goals. This was Tranville blocking his way, however.
Jack maintained a steady gaze. ‘My business will not concern you.’
Jack would wager Tranville’s theatrical interests were in fostering liaisons with the actresses, not fostering national culture. Actresses and dancers encouraged the attentions of wealthy lords who wanted to indulge them with jewels and gowns and carriages.
He frowned. He had nothing to offer Ariana.
He told himself he merely wanted to renew their brief acquaintance. He wanted her to know he had been the artist whose work she so admired.
Two gentleman approached the door and Tranville was forced to step aside for them. Jack took the opportunity to follow them.
Tranville grabbed his arm. ‘You cannot go in there, Jack. You do not have entrée.’
Jack shot him a menacing look. ‘Entrée?
Tranville did not flinch. ‘Not everyone is welcome. Do not force me to have you removed from the building.’ He glanced towards two muscular stagehands standing nearby.
Had Tranville forgotten Jack had also been on the Peninsula? His was the regiment that captured the Imperial Eagle at Salamanca. Jack would like to see how many men it would take to eject him from the theatre.
More gentlemen approached, however, and Jack chose not to make a scene. It would not serve his purpose.
Tranville smiled, thinking his intimidation had succeeded. He dropped his hand. ‘Now, if you wish me to speak to Mr Arnold on your behalf, you will have to tell me what it is about.’
The other gentlemen were in earshot, the only reason Jack spoke. He made certain his voice carried. ‘A proposition for Mr Arnold. To paint his actors and actresses.’
‘Paint them?’ Tranville’s brow furrowed.
‘I am an artist, sir.’ Jack wanted the other gentlemen, now looking mildly interested, to hear him.
With luck one of them might mention to Mr Arnold that an artist wanted to see him. That might help gain him an interview with the manager when Jack called the next afternoon.
Convincing Mr Arnold to hire him to publicise his plays would serve both Jack’s ambitions: to earn new commissions and to see Ariana again.
Tranville made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, give me your card and I will speak to Arnold.’
Jack took a card from his pocket. ‘Tell him Jack Vernon has a business proposition for him. Tell him my work was included in last summer’s exhibition.’
The most curious of the onlookers appeared satisfied. They had heard Jack’s name, at any rate.
Jack nodded to the men. He was resigned. These men would see Ariana tonight. He would not.
And all because of Tranville’s interference. Jack’s hand curled into a fist.
Tranville snatched the card from Jack’s other hand and stuck it in his pocket without even looking at it. Jack turned to leave.
Tranville stopped him. ‘Tell me, Jack—how is your mother?’
The question surprised him. ‘In good health.’ He added, ‘She was at the performance. Did you not see her?’
Jack meant it as a jibe, to show his mother doing well without Tranville’s company, but instead the man cocked his head in interest. ‘Was she?’ He spoke more to himself than to Jack. ‘So Mary is in London.’
Another man walked past and opened the door to the Green Room. Tranville emerged from his brief reverie. ‘I must go.’
Jack was more than ready to be rid of him.
