you further, sir,’ he said. ‘If the forces of the law wish to take up the matter of your quarrel with Rigg, that is their right. We in the Company will mourn the passing of our fellow, before gathering the strength to continue – as we have done before in the face of adversity, and will again!’ Seeing that his words met with approval, he went on: ‘Yet I will not have personal conflicts spilling on to the stage of the Duke’s Theatre. You will not play here, ever again. You are dismissed, sir – and further, you are barred from entering this building. I wish you good day!’
A tense moment followed. Beale gave Betterton a long look, of impotent anger mingled with shame; then at last he puffed out his chest, turned on his heel and strode to the side entrance. The walk was a long one; and by the time he had reached the door, a doorman had flung it wide. From outside, the cries of the watermen could be heard from the river, before Beale disappeared from sight.
There was a general sigh of relief. Some of the actors rose, and by the look of them, were bound for the nearest tavern. Betsy, too, felt that she had heard enough for one afternoon, and Jane Rowe’s expression suggested that she was of similar mind. Yet as voices rose, Betterton raised his hand again.
‘I will not keep you here any longer,’ he called. ‘You of course understand that the run of Macbeth is over. We will not play tomorrow, nor the day after, which is in any case the Lord’s day. Yet it is my wish that next week we may gather with renewed vigour, and prepare a favourite piece from our repertoire—’
But at that moment there came a sonorous voice from the doorway, and the sudden entrance of an imposing personage put paid to that notion in an instant.
‘I regret that will not be possible, Mr Betterton. The theatre must close until further notice, by order of the Lord Chamberlain.’
The silence that followed was one of dismay. All eyes fell upon a stocky, handsome man in his middle forties, richly dressed in a maroon suit, flat-crowned hat and gold stockings. Lord Caradoc, the Master of the King’s Revels, was a familiar face at the playhouses, even if his presence was not always welcome. Yet the man’s good humour and wit were such that few could find it in their hearts to dislike him. Unhurriedly, His Lordship walked forward.
‘My lord.’ Betterton made his bow, and other men rose to follow suit while women curtsied. But Caradoc ignored the formalities, and it was clear from his grave expression that he had heard the news.
‘I am sorry for it,’ he said, ‘as I am for your tragic loss.’ He hesitated. ‘For do I hear correctly, that Mr Rigg was not merely taken ill, but has since died?’
In reply to that Betterton’s brief nod was all the man needed.
‘Then, even though the Lord Chamberlain has yet to be appraised of the matter,’ Caradoc continued, ‘I take it upon myself to anticipate his will. In view of the fact that two deaths have occurred here in as many days, there can be no other course of action.’
Nobody spoke. The theatre’s closure was more than a passing inconvenience for the Duke’s Company: it meant the loss of their income. Many of them, from the older actors to Louise the tiring-maid, were the breadwinners for their families. Betsy caught Tom Catlin’s eye, then she glanced at Lord Caradoc, and found his eyes upon her.
She sighed; she was not the only unmarried actress to have been propositioned at one time or another by the noble lord. Yet in contrast to someone like Samuel Tripp, he had always made his advances with such gallantry that Betsy had usually felt flattered. He had also taken her rebuffs with good grace, saying he was a sporting man who enjoyed the chase, and could laugh in the face of defeat.
But now there was nothing more to be said. Betterton and Caradoc moved aside in private conversation. After a moment John Downes joined them, along with Daggett. The rest of the company made
A tense moment followed. Beale gave Betterton a long look, of impotent anger mingled with shame; then at last he puffed out his chest, turned on his heel and strode to the side entrance. The walk was a long one; and by the time he had reached the door, a doorman had flung it wide. From outside, the cries of the watermen could be heard from the river, before Beale disappeared from sight.
There was a general sigh of relief. Some of the actors rose, and by the look of them, were bound for the nearest tavern. Betsy, too, felt that she had heard enough for one afternoon, and Jane Rowe’s expression suggested that she was of similar mind. Yet as voices rose, Betterton raised his hand again.
‘I will not keep you here any longer,’ he called. ‘You of course understand that the run of Macbeth is over. We will not play tomorrow, nor the day after, which is in any case the Lord’s day. Yet it is my wish that next week we may gather with renewed vigour, and prepare a favourite piece from our repertoire—’
But at that moment there came a sonorous voice from the doorway, and the sudden entrance of an imposing personage put paid to that notion in an instant.
‘I regret that will not be possible, Mr Betterton. The theatre must close until further notice, by order of the Lord Chamberlain.’
The silence that followed was one of dismay. All eyes fell upon a stocky, handsome man in his middle forties, richly dressed in a maroon suit, flat-crowned hat and gold stockings. Lord Caradoc, the Master of the King’s Revels, was a familiar face at the playhouses, even if his presence was not always welcome. Yet the man’s good humour and wit were such that few could find it in their hearts to dislike him. Unhurriedly, His Lordship walked forward.
‘My lord.’ Betterton made his bow, and other men rose to follow suit while women curtsied. But Caradoc ignored the formalities, and it was clear from his grave expression that he had heard the news.
‘I am sorry for it,’ he said, ‘as I am for your tragic loss.’ He hesitated. ‘For do I hear correctly, that Mr Rigg was not merely taken ill, but has since died?’
In reply to that Betterton’s brief nod was all the man needed.
‘Then, even though the Lord Chamberlain has yet to be appraised of the matter,’ Caradoc continued, ‘I take it upon myself to anticipate his will. In view of the fact that two deaths have occurred here in as many days, there can be no other course of action.’
Nobody spoke. The theatre’s closure was more than a passing inconvenience for the Duke’s Company: it meant the loss of their income. Many of them, from the older actors to Louise the tiring-maid, were the breadwinners for their families. Betsy caught Tom Catlin’s eye, then she glanced at Lord Caradoc, and found his eyes upon her.
She sighed; she was not the only unmarried actress to have been propositioned at one time or another by the noble lord. Yet in contrast to someone like Samuel Tripp, he had always made his advances with such gallantry that Betsy had usually felt flattered. He had also taken her rebuffs with good grace, saying he was a sporting man who enjoyed the chase, and could laugh in the face of defeat.
But now there was nothing more to be said. Betterton and Caradoc moved aside in private conversation. After a moment John Downes joined them, along with Daggett. The rest of the company made
Similar Books
