So Near So Far Read online

  “And she thinks, I suppose, that all actresses follow the moral example of Nell Gwyn?”

  “She certainly regards them as prostitutes and little better, indeed, than her family’s political opponents. A very high standard of virtue is characteristic of the circle in which she moves.”

  They walked on, jostled by other pedestrians, and Delancey wondered again whether he was doing the right thing. He remembered every magic moment of that first meeting. He had been long at sea and he had suddenly found himself next to this dark-haired lady with her delicate features, slim hands, and that subtle perfume. She coloured slightly at his compliments and made some passing reference to the Battle of Algeçiras—just enough to show that she had followed his career. His admiration for her was real enough but he could not fail to see what he gained from her friendship. For all he knew he might himself end with a seat in Parliament for a dockyard constituency. But could he live with Diana’s standards of piety? He had never pretended to share her beliefs yet he felt, nevertheless, that he was expected to conform to them. But Mather was speaking:

  “It is always difficult, sir, to represent a ship’s deck on the stage. I remember once seeing a performance of Shakespeare’s play The Tempest—well done, too, in a general way—but what a feeble mess they made of Act I, Scene I! What, however, is the stage manager to do? His task is impossible and I expect that we shall see the same sort of failure this evening.”

  The party which foregathered at the theatre entrance numbered six in all, the other guests being Colonel Wilding, Captain Benham of the 7th Foot, and a solitary civilian, Mr Wansford. After the necessary introductions and greetings they took their seats, Delancey finding himself between Willoughby and Benham. The curtain rose before they had done more than glance at the programme. It was not in any way a masterpiece of drama and stagecraft for the characters were predictable, the plot lacked originality, the humour was merely boisterous, and the story’s end could be easily foreseen.

  Delancey, for his part, made little effort to hear the dialogue or follow the plot. He saw only one person on stage and that was the young actress who played the part of Susan Staywell. When she was off stage he merely waited for her return. She was extremely pretty but his admiration was confused by the feeling—no, by the certainty—that he had seen her before. Their previous meeting could not have been recent, for he had been at sea for years. Perhaps he had merely seen her in some other play, but how seldom had he been in London! She was no novice, it would seem, for she acted with an assurance, a neatness of movement, a studied charm which could derive only from years of experience. Fiona Sinclair was her name as printed in the programme. He certainly could not remember that name but he knew, of course, that stage names are often assumed. For the whole of Act I he puzzled his brain without result. He must see her and talk to her but it was vital that they should not meet as strangers. There must have been men enough seeking to make her acquaintance and she would know very well how to brush them off. Where had he seen her before? Light suddenly dawned in the course of Act II. By all the social conventions of the day her costume as cabin boy was unthinkably indecent, not because her shirt was open at the front, as it chanced to be, but because her white linen trousers were a size too small and revealed the curves of all that they were meant to conceal. She was barefoot, too, and her feet were unbelievably shapely and white. It was this provocative appearance which suddenly brought back total recollection. She had played a similar part in a play called The Poor Sailor presented at the theatre in Guernsey back in about 1794. She and another girl, both clad as seamen for theatrical purposes, had appeared on the quayside in St Peter Port in a frolic done for a bet.

  Watching her on stage, and seeing no one else—not even Mrs Siddons herself—he realised that her part in Act II was quite needless. There was no real point in her masquerading as a cabin boy, no object in her boarding the cutter. Her part had been written in solely to display her breath-taking figure. How old would she be? She looked about eighteen but that would seem to have been her age nearly seven years ago. She must now be twenty-four at least … and now it was the end of the play. The Tories had won the Boughtborough election to the accompaniment of loud jeers from the Whig members of the audience. Colonel and Mrs Staywell had given their consent to the marriage of their only daughter to Lieutenant Mainbrace. Sir John Sitting had agreed to secure the Lieutenant’s promotion, having plenty of influence to ensure this. All came forward to take their bow and then the audience began to leave.

  “Shall we go backstage?” Delancey heard himself saying. “I must beg the stage manager to amend some of his mistakes in seamanship. The scene in Act II could be easily improved and the seamen might appear to work with a purpose.” The others agreed with some reluctance and Delancey led the way to the stage door. They were finally admitted, after a bribe to the doorman, and found themselves moving with difficulty among a tangle of scenery, furniture, and props. Some members of the cast were still on stage, discussing some point with the stage manager, Mr Ward. When they paused for breath, Delancey begged to introduce himself as a naval officer. “Pray forgive my seeming officious, but there are some ways in which your business on stage could be made more true to life. Might I call sometime tomorrow so as to offer what help I can?”

  “Really, sir,” said Mr Ward, “I am vastly obliged to you. We shall be rehearsing another play during the morning but will be on stage again at two and will be glad indeed of your professional advice. The stage will be rigged as for Act II and all will be present who appear in the Act.”

  “Very well, sir,” replied Delancey, “I shall be happy to wait on you then. The changes I’ll advise are all quite small in themselves but should serve to make the scene more authentic.”

  “I shall hope then to see more naval men in the audience.”

  Delancey and his friends were just about to take their leave when there was the sound of running feet and Fiona Sinclair fairly scampered on stage, still dressed as a cabin boy. The sight of the visitors checked whatever it was she had to say and she blushed prettily while Mr Ward performed the introductions.

  “I beg to present Captain Delancey, Miss Sinclair, together with other distinguished officers who have been good enough to patronise the evening’s play.”

  “I need no introduction, Mr Ward,” said Delancey. “Miss Sinclair and I are old friends—I hope at least that she will remember me from the days when she was playing in St Peter Port?”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Fiona. “What was the play?”

  “The Poor Sailor,” replied Delancey, “and I thought it a very poor play, saved only by your acting.”

  “But I was playing only a small part!”

  “As a girl dressed as a cabin boy.”

  “Oh, dear, you must think that I always dress like this!”

  “The dress certainly becomes you. Where you and another girl made a mistake was to venture on the breakwater, clad as seamen and hoping to pass as such!”

  “So you remember that too!”

  “But do you remember me now?”

  ”Of course I do. You were a junior officer then—and painfully shy!”

  “If you will forget my awkward manners I promise to forget your escapade on the breakwater.”

  “Shake hands on a bargain!” For an instant he felt her cool slim hand in his. Then he hastened to take his leave.

  “I shall be here tomorrow afternoon to advise Mr Ward on some point of seamanship. I shall hope to see you then. Young lady, your servant. Mr Ward, your humble assistant!”

  All this time Major Willoughby and his other guests were showing signs of impatience and Delancey presently made his apologies as they were leaving the theatre.

  “No need to make excuses, my dear fellow. We all understand and I’ll admit that she is a deucedly pretty girl. No one could blame you. She is as charming a girl as ever I saw!”

  “In trousers, moreover, and barefoot!” added Captain Benham.

  “But not a
word of this, egad, to Mrs Farren!” exclaimed Colonel Willoughby. “She had best not know that you have been to the theatre at all—let alone going backstage!”

  “And let alone going back there tomorrow!” added Willoughby.

  Delancey had to put up with a good deal of quizzing over supper but Mather took no part in it, looking rather serious. He knew exactly what impact that girl must have had on Delancey. She had red-gold hair, dark eyes, white skin, and a perfect figure. She had a lovely voice, trained for the stage. But her beauty, startling as it might be, was less memorable than her sheer vitality. She was obviously a girl in ten thousand, one he himself would never forget for the rest of his life. As for Delancey, he had still remembered her from a chance meeting—had it been more than that?—at the very beginning of the war. But what of his career? The war had ended. There would be no more prizes to capture, no more honours to achieve, and he was not yet a post captain. His whole future depended on a marriage which would establish his position in the service and in society. It looked now as if he might throw away his entire future for the sake of a young actress who was of no consequence even on the stage. Mather couldn’t hide from himself that his own future, as Delancey’s follower, was also at risk. But that, he told himself, was of little consequence. Delancey was a man who should rise high in the service if all went well but his career would come to nothing if he jilted Mrs Farren.

  On the following afternoon Delancey was at the theatre and Mather, at his own suggestion, came to offer his own counsel and assistance. It was as well he did so, for Delancey, after Fiona appeared, would talk to no one else. Nor did the girl herself need any encouragement. There were young ladies in society who would make a point of being bashful in male company but Fiona’s life had been spent on the stage. Observing her, Mather guessed that she would have had several lovers in her time. She was no virgin, of that he felt sure, but she retained, nevertheless, a certain quality of innocence. Forced to take over the chief role of technical adviser, Mather explained to Mr Ward that the crew’s energies should be directed, first of all, towards hoisting the cutter’s mainsail. He began to show how this would be done. Delancey, meanwhile, led Fiona aside and sat beside her on a bench in the wings. After a moment’s hesitation he asked her about her career since they had met.

  “You are not of a Guernsey family, I should suppose?”

  ”Why, no. I came to the island with the theatre company, being treated almost as a daughter by Mr and Mrs Bernard. Then the theatre closed down there and I tried my fortunes in London.”

  “I’m afraid you will have had an uphill struggle?”

  “I have been luckier than many young players. I haven’t often gone hungry.”

  “You have relatives perhaps, in London?”

  “No, sir. None nearer than Scotland.”

  “Do please forgive my directness, Miss Sinclair, but do tell me this: Are your parents alive?”

  “No, sir. I am illegitimate but have been told that my father, who never married and who died in battle, was commander of a private man-of-war. My mother was young when she came under his protection, and died when little older. I don’t remember her, but I have an aunt and uncle at Dumbarton. I have been brought up on the stage and have had no other education. Now you know my whole life history! One or two men have wanted to marry me but they lost interest when they learnt that I am not legitimate. A good riddance, too! If a man cares for me no more than that, he doesn’t care for me enough.”

  Delancey was captivated by Fiona and found himself wondering why. Her clothes had, and were meant to have a stunning effect—shirt and trousers were obviously her only garments—but she seemed almost unaware of her powerful attraction. Far from being bashful or self-conscious, she was too intent on the conversation to notice what her unbuttoned shirt was revealing.

  “Tell me your name again,” she demanded.

  “Richard Delancey.”

  ”I should have remembered it from our first meeting.”

  “When I was the Poor Sailor!”

  “But no longer poor. You have been promoted, you have fought gallantly, and you have made prize money!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see it in your face. I shouldn’t call you exactly handsome—”

  “You are right there!”

  “—But you look interesting. I can imagine men being afraid of you.”

  “Men, but not girls?”

  “Of course not. Any girl can do what she likes with you and would know it from the beginning. Do you think me pretty?”

  “You are the most beautiful creature I ever set eyes on.”

  “But quite penniless, almost nameless, and not a model of virtue. I am full of mischief. If we are to be friends, you must not claim afterwards that I did not warn you. I am no fine lady, no simpering miss, and no ornament to society. I am just a village girl, an orphan, and brought up on the stage.”

  “I have been warned and I still want you to think of me as a friend.”

  “In that case we are friends. You may kiss my hand.”

  Delancey quickly availed himself of that privilege. Then he noticed that the rehearsal had come to a pause, with Mather talking quietly with Mr Ward on one side of the stage and the players chatting among themselves, some of them glancing with amusement at Delancey. Fiona had made another conquest! They must have been familiar with the routine and might even claim to know the lines. Fiona took all this in at a glance and her face lit up with a wicked idea.

  “And now you may kiss my feet!” Without a second’s hesitation Delancey knelt before her and deliberately kissed each foot in turn, noticing how dirty they were, as they would be, of course, from the dust of the stage.

  “And for that you deserve a reward!” She kissed him fairly on the mouth to the sound of subdued laughter. “And now I must go and rehearse with the others, after which I must change these clothes and you must go.” She was gone in an instant and it seemed only a matter of minutes before Delancey found himself in the street, walking westwards with Mather.

  “What an astonishing creature!” he exclaimed. “She is almost as direct as a milkmaid or shepherdess, ready to be tumbled next moment in the hay, but she has been taught as an actress to take the part of a young lady. She has no trace of a country accent. She could easily play her part as a Colonel’s daughter.”

  “Forgive me saying this, sir, but it seems to me that you are taking a terrible risk. What if Mrs Farren comes to hear of this frolic backstage? Your whole future depends upon making a good marriage and you have the chance of a lifetime. It is not as if Mrs Farren were unattractive. I have been told that she is still a fine woman. She will bring you wealth—in India stock, too, I hear—and just the right sort of connection.”

  “I know that, Mather, and need no reminder.”

  “But it is not merely the risk of losing her. You could be accused of trifling with Mrs Farren’s affections and would make enemies of the whole family.”

  “I realise that.”

  “But they might take very real offence. I should suppose, indeed, that her brother, Lord Dynevor, might call you out.”

  “Yes, I think he might. In his place I should do the same.”

  “So do please heed my advice for once. Leave things as they are and let’s hope that no word of this comes to Mrs Farren’s ears. Let us thank heaven that Major Willoughby and the others were not here today. It is the stage players who will gossip but they don’t move in society. There is a chance of nothing more being heard about it. But please, sir, resolve never to see this girl again. Forget you ever saw her!”

  “Could you ever forget her?”

  “Well—I suppose not. But it isn’t important that I should. For you, sir, it is vital.”

  “So you would advise me against marrying Miss Sinclair?”

  “Marrying her? No thought of that ever crossed my mind. You must know as well as I do that she is little better than a prostitute.”

  “A streetwalker?”
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  “No. I don’t mean that. But it is well-known that a young actress will gain a part in a play by offering her favours to the leading actor. I should suppose that Fiona is a woman of the world. She has done well to be playing at Drury Lane. I can only guess at the story of her rise to this prominence.”

  “She is no angel, I grant you that, but I should not want her to be different in any way. I could not even have wished that her feet had been clean.”

  When they parted, Mather headed quickly back to the theatre and arrived just as members of the cast were leaving. Fiona Sinclair was greatly surprised to see him, and perhaps disappointed, but she allowed him to escort her for the short distance to where she lodged in Hanover Place. A shy bachelor, Mather had the utmost difficulty in explaining himself. He finally made it clear that his friend Delancey was a rising officer of potential distinction and that his whole future depended upon his making a suitable marriage. He was all but engaged to a lady of high position and influence. By coming backstage at Drury Lane he had put his career at risk. By pursuing a friendship with an actress he would face ruin.

  “Did he tell you to say all this?” asked Fiona bluntly.

  “He has not the least idea of it,” Mather hastened to assure her. “I am pleading with you for the good of the service.”

  “And with an eye to your own promotion?”

  “I know it must seem like that. I have questioned my own motives a dozen times. But Delancey’s career would be important to me even if I had not been his follower or had not been in the service at all. He will some day lead a squadron as Commodore. The whole safety of the kingdom might depend upon his resolution and skill. His name may well be remembered alongside those of Howe, Jervis, Duncan, or Nelson.”

  “And Nelson has done himself no good by associating too much with a prostitute called Emma?”

  “I’ll admit, forgive me, that the comparison had crossed my mind. Anyway, my plea is that you refuse to see him again.”